


In the Aftermath of Hell

by Bamboozlepig



Category: Adam-12, Dragnet, Emergency!
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Graphic descriptions, Language, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 04:57:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 94,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bamboozlepig/pseuds/Bamboozlepig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "The Ordinary Day" and "Courage Under Fire", the crew faces the aftermath of the deadly sniper killings. </p><p>Still on hiatus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Adam-12, Emergency!, and Dragnet are the property of MarkVII/Universal, no copyright infringement intended. **ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION.** In order to enhance the overall plot experience, creative liberties may have been intentionally taken with the real-life protocols depicted herein.

_"All units on Tac2 from One-L-20, the sniper has been neutralized. I repeat, the sniper has been neutralized. All units at this scene may stand down at this time, but please remain at your current posts and keep your radio traffic on Tac2 until further notice."_

_"Dispatch copies that, One-L-20. Time of stand down, 18:00 hours."_

_"One-L-20 from Air Ten?"_

_"Go ahead, Air Ten."_

_"Mac, if you don't need us for any further aerial assistance, we'd like to head back to base. We're running low on fuel."_

_"Yeah, that's fine, Air Ten, return to base. I'll dispatch a homicide team to meet you there, in order to get your statements. Thanks for all your help up here today. Your assistance was valuable."_

_"Roger that, Mac, always glad to be of service. Dispatch from Air Ten, we'll be headed back to the LAPD heliport, and we'll be out of service until further notice."_

_"Dispatch copies, Air Ten."_

_"Dispatch from One-L-20?"_

_"Go ahead, One-L-20."_

_"You need to contact the coroner's office, have them en route out here with body bags, identikits, and refrigerated trucks. Once Homicide is through processing the scene out here, the bodies will need to be removed as soon as possible. They'll need to bring out their photographic equipment in order to aid with identification."_

_"Copy that, One-L-20. They will need to know how many body bags to bring out to that location."_

_"Ah…say at least forty for now. It may be more, it may be less. We won't know until Homicide gets into the area and begins processing. We'll have a more accurate body count by then. We'll need someone from the Water Department en route out here. We've got a water main that's ruptured that will need to be shut off. Get ahold of the heads of Public Works and the Parks Department and advise them that they're looking at a rather large clean-up effort on both the streets and in the park area, once this scene is released. We don't need them out here now, but let them know that there's a lot of large piles of debris from the parking ramp in the street, plus damage within the park. Get in touch with the keyholders of the Granite Court building and parking ramp, the Office Furniture Warehouse, and the AutoZip Used Car Lot, and advise them that there is a considerable amount of damage done to their properties. They won't be allowed in until the scene is cleared, but reassure them that our officers will be standing guard over the premises overnight and in to tomorrow, to prevent looting. You might also see if the Red Cross can send their mobile canteen unit out here, in order to supply coffee and doughnuts for the personnel working on site. Advise all those responding out here to use the roadblock at Palmtree Drive and Morris Avenue in order to get through."_

_"Roger, One-L-20. Captain Moore is wanting to know how the sniper was neutralized, in order to pass that information along to the Chief of Police and the Mayor."_

_"Advise Captain Moore I'm not sure yet how the sniper was neutralized. The two SWAT team members have yet to return to the command post with that information. I'll let him know as soon as possible."_

_"Copy, One-L-20. Also, the Mayor and the Police Chief are wondering if it would be possible for them to come out to the scene for a survey of the area. They'd like to speak with some of the family members and survivors, if possible. And I believe they'd like to speak with the two SWAT team members who brought the sniper down."_

_"Uh…negative on that dispatch. Advise them that the scene has yet to be processed and is still very much an active crime scene. And I'd rather not have them speak with the relatives of the deceased in the park just yet, let the poor people get their heads wrapped around what's happened out here before we start allowing the officials to talk with them. And as far as the survivors, they're being sequestered until they can be fully interviewed by homicide. The two SWAT team members cannot be interviewed until they've been debriefed by the investigating detectives."_

_"Roger that, One-L-20. Be advised that Captain Moore will be on his way out there shortly, to speak with you and assess the scene, to see what further needs to be done. He will also be sitting in on the debriefing of the two SWAT team members."_

_"Copy that, dispatch. Advise Captain Moore that he needs to come to the roadblock at Palmtree and Morris to be allowed in."_

_"One-L-20 from One-Adam-43?"_

_"Go ahead, One-Adam-43, this is One-L-20."_

_"Mac, the mobile lighting trucks are here. Where do you want me to tell them to go?"_

_"Tell 'em to come on up to the logistics truck for now, I'll deploy them from there."_

_"Roger, Mac. There's four trucks in all, plus a support vehicle with extra gasoline for refueling the generators. I'll send them through."_

* * *

"I suppose Mac is wanting us back at the command post," Jim Reed says, his voice weary and thick with fatigue. He still sits on the rooftop of the Granite Court building, back braced against the high edge of the brick parapet, his head resting against the wall, his eyes closed.

"Yeah," I reply, still staring up at the ever-darkening sky. I'm sitting next to him on the rooftop, watching the stars wink on overhead. An incredible lethargy has taken hold of me, and right now, it's an effort for me to even gather the energy to talk. I hear the whup-whup-whup of Air Ten banking in the distance, then the sound slowly fades off. They must be headed back to the helipad.

Reed draws in a breath and heaves it out in a sigh. "I really don't want to, you know," he says. "It's peaceful up here."

"I know it," I reply.

"I can hear myself think," he says.

"What are you thinking of?" I ask him, looking over at him.

"This," he says, holding his hands up for me to see. They're stained with dried blood; blood from the injured victims we pulled out of the park. "This," he says, pointing to the left sleeve of his coveralls, where the faint crust of dried blood and brain matter still adorn it, from the little girl whose head was blown off by Charlie Burnside, right as Jim was getting ready to load her into the Armadillo. "This," he says, making a sweeping gesture with both hands to the rooftop and the park below. "And this," he says, pointing to the naked ring finger on his left hand, where his silver wedding band usually sits.

"That's a lot for one person to be thinking about," I tell him. "You sure your brain can handle all that?"

He is quiet for a moment. "No," he says. "I'm not sure." He looks over at me. "Tell me, Pete, do you have any words of wisdom for me right now? Any answers from the font of Malloy wisdom to help me out in dealing with any of this?"

I shake my head. "No," I say. "None at all. I don't even have any words of wisdom for myself. In all my years of service on the police force, I've never had to deal with anything like this."

He falls quiet for a moment, then he speaks. "How'd you get the cut on your knee?" he asks, nodding to the gash on my right knee.

"Slipped on a chunk of concrete and came down on a piece of rebar," I tell him.

"Chasing after me," he fills in. "I'm sorry, Pete."

I shrug. "Don't be. Couldn't be helped."

"It was a stupid-assed thing of me to do, wasn't it?" he asks. "Coming up here on the rooftop to confront Charlie Burnside."

"It certainly wasn't one of your smarter moves, that's for sure," I tell him. "But at least you got Burnside. He's dead. He can't hurt anyone else."

"What about the ones he's already hurt? The witnesses and the survivors we pulled out of the park?" He rubs his forehead. "And us," he adds. "What about us? His actions today are rather far-reaching as the future goes. How do we put what we've seen today out of our minds? How do ones like John Gage and Roy DeSoto cope with this crap? Gage rode into battle with us during the rescues, he saw what we saw. The fire crew from Station 51 had to rescue their own captain from their crushed fire engine, and in the process, Mike Stoker got shot. How do we begin to make any sense out of what hell has occurred out here? Tell me that, Pete."

I shake my head. "I don't know," I say. "I honestly don't know, Jim. I guess we take it one day at a time." I slowly drag my weary body to my feet, picking up my rifle. I look out over the park in the twilight one last time, the bodies of the dead now just faint pale shapes in the dusk. A few security lights wink on in the park, joined by some of the streetlights on Granite Court that weren't damaged by either Burnside or the explosion of the parking ramp. The cars in the lot down below are covered in dust, and the bodies of the dead in the street are likewise covered. Glass from the shattered car windows glitter in the light of the street lamps, while the collapsed parking ramp looks like a giant has stepped on it, crushing it underfoot. Dust still drifts like a ghostly powder in the air, though it's not as thick as it was earlier. There's the popping sound of a gas-powered generator motor starting up, and it's soon joined by the sputtering of other motors. Then, without warning, four sets of huge mobile lights snap on, one right after the other, temporarily blinding me with their obscene brightness. "Jesus Christ," I say, wincing and turning away from the lights. I put my hand up to shield my eyes from them. "The mobile lighting trucks are here," I tell Reed. "In case you can't tell." Even the rooftop is bathed in light.

He stands up, too, blinking in the sudden brightness. "They've even got them lighting up the park like it's broad daylight," he says. "I thought they couldn't access the park from the other side, that the path in was too narrow."

I squint, trying to discern where the trucks are set up. "They've got one at the corner of the park, in the street, at Adamson and Chicory," I tell him. "It looks like they've pulled the other one right up to the maintenance entrance."

Reed studies the sniper's nest Burnside has laid out on the roof. He goes over to the dusty tripod and kneels down, trying to get a line of sight into the park. "Wonder what the bastard was thinking as he watched people die out here from his bullets?" he asks. He looks over at Burnside's discarded rifle lying nearby and mesmerized, he slowly starts to reach a hand out to pick it up.

"Jim!" I hiss in shock. "Don't touch that! SID will have to process it."

He jumps, jerking his hand back. "Sorry," he says. He stands back up, gazing around the rooftop. "He was in for the long haul, that's for sure," he says, gesturing to the collapsed homemade canopy that Burnside had evidently built for protection from the sun. A black footlocker is nearby, the lid propped open, boxes of ammunition nestled within, along with K-rations and three canteens, along with a couple of rolls of toilet paper. A red Coleman mini-cooler sits next to the footlocker, filled with grey water and floating chips of ice. Cans of soda float and bump in the disgusting water. A small transistor radio, along with a handheld police scanner are sitting next to the tripod. A thick layer of dust coats everything, except Burnside's rifle and the CC unit he was using to talk to and taunt us before Reed took him down.

"We almost died up here," Reed says softly. "Do you realize that, Pete? That if Air Ten hadn't of made that pass to distract Burnside, he would've killed us?"

"I'm trying not to think of that right now," I tell him. I start towards the rooftop fire escape door, pulling my flashlight out of my pocket and slinging the rifle over my shoulder. My feet are heavy beneath me, my footsteps slow and ponderous. "We'd better get down there, before Mac has our asses on a platter," I tell Reed over my shoulder.

"I think he's already going to have our asses on a platter," Jim says, following behind me. "After the stunt I pulled." He picks up his rifle, the one that jammed on him just when he confronted Burnside on the roof. "Lousy piece of crap," he mutters, turning it over in his hand. "I might as well have come up here on the rooftop with a squirt gun."

"SID will want to take a look at it," I tell him. "See why it jammed on you."

"I know it," he tells me, his voice somewhat irritated. "I'm not an idiot."

Wordlessly, I turn away, and begin to make my way down the fourth floor stairwell. My flashlight beam bounces brightly ahead of me, and a moment later, I hear Jim's footsteps squishing behind me, and his flashlight beam soon joins mine. The fire alarms are still shrieking at ear-shattering decibels, while the emergency lights still strobe frantically off and on. The sprinkler system continues to rain inside, and we have to watch our footing going down the steps, as the carpeting covering them is slick and soggy with flowing water. When I reach the bottom of the first flight of stairs, I stop, in shock. The water has now risen to the level of the second step up from the ground floor, and is rapidly encroaching upon the third step. Shining the flashlight down through the murky water, I carefully place my feet on the second step, feeling around with first one foot, then the other, to make sure that the steps are still there and haven't been washed out or weakened. When I reach the bottom step, I start to set my foot down, sure that I have solid ground underneath me, but I'm wrong. The carpeting that lines the steps has buckled from the water and pulled away from the stairs, and I slip, nearly falling into the murky water. I throw my hand out to catch myself on the railing and Reed grabs me by my collar, jerking me back, saving me from splashing into the water surging around the steps.

"You okay?" he yells over the din of the fire alarms.

"Yeah," I yell back. "Watch that last step!" I ease myself down and when I reach the floor, I stop, turning around and shining my light for Jim to see his way down. Once he's down on the ground level, the two of us wade carefully through the dirty, debris-laden water that nearly comes to the tops of our boots. The sprinklers hiss overhead, showering us with icy-cold water. Chilly fingers of it trickle down my back, and I shiver. We reach the skewed wooden double-entrance doors that are barely hanging on the doorframe, the glass completely blown out of them, and step through them to the pavement outside, leaving behind the hell that is inside the Granite Court building. Water is gushing rapidly out over the bottoms of the doors, flowing out onto the sidewalk. I switch off my flashlight and run a hand through my soaked hair. With the four lighting trucks providing lighting, it's like we're walking down the street mid-day.

Beside me, Reed hesitates, his gaze locked onto the broken body of Charlie Burnside, the sniper and the cause of all this destruction and death today. When Reed sent Burnside toppling over the side of the building, Burnside landed on a pile of rubble from the parking ramp he'd dynamited. His body is pierced in two places by sharp pieces of rebar that poke up through him, one in the groin and one in the throat, pinning him to the rubble like a grotesque butterfly in a museum. The dynamite is still strapped to his chest, while the revolver he'd had pointed at Reed's head has fallen out of his hand and winks metallically at us in the bright lights. His face is a ghastly death mask of horror, his mouth hanging open in a soundless scream, while his eyes stare sightlessly at the sky overhead, and blood seeps out of his body through areas of flesh pierced with shattered bone. It drips and puddles in the rubble below him.

"C'mon," I say, tugging gently on Reed's sleeve. "It's done and over with. The bastard is dead." He doesn't answer me, and I feel him shudder convulsively beside me. I tug on him once more, trying to get him to move. "It's not gonna do you any good to stand there and stare at him," I tell him. "Let's go."

He bats my hand away suddenly, then he abruptly shoves past me and begins to stride ahead. Whether he's upset with me or Charlie Burnside, I can't tell. He doesn't look back to see if I'm following him.

I lag behind, giving him his space. As I walk back towards the command post, I allow myself to take in the sights that the compressed urgency and violence of the earlier situation wouldn't let me see, forcing me to take on tunnel vision in order to do my job. My boots squish as I walk, as concrete dust grits under my tread, clinging thickly to my wet feet. I pass by Los Angeles County Fire Squad 51, where paramedics John Gage and Roy DeSoto took cover from the sniper's bullets on the passenger side of the truck. Bullet holes pucker the dusty red metal skin like kisses, the windshield is completely shot out, the light bar is a mess of red plastic shards, the tires on the driver's side are flattened. The driver's side mirror hangs by one metal rod, while some of the compartment doors hang slightly open, bullets popping the handles free from the body of the truck. Burnside's rental truck is completely buried under a pile of rubble, only a small portion of the tailgate visible. An unearthly silence sits over the area, broken only by the popping and farting of the generators powering the lights. By the time I reach the first mound of rubble I must crawl over in order to get back to the command post, Reed has already made it across, and is in the process of scaling the second pile. Moving gingerly, I watch my step carefully as I clamber over the slabs and chunks of broken concrete, my knee throbbing sharply from the gash on it, the act of climbing breaking it open once more, causing blood to ooze stickily down my leg.

The Armadillo, the armored SWAT rig we used to perform rescues in the park this afternoon, sits forlornly between the two piles of concrete, helplessly stuck until the debris surrounding it is removed. It looks like a creature trapped in the La Brea Tar Pits. As I pass it, I run my hand along the thick metal hull, my fingers feeling out little dings and dents it received when the ramp came crashing down. I pat it like a favored thoroughbred horse, for without it, we wouldn't have been able to rescue anyone in that park until we'd brought the sniper down. I cast a glance over at the ruined hulk of Engine 51, the bed of the fire engine badly crushed by a concrete support pillar from the ramp, the cab pierced in two by another chunk of concrete. Captain Stanley from Station 51 had been pinned inside and had to be rescued by his firefighters. They cut the roof supports at the driver's side doorframe in half, flopping the severed section of the roof up next to the concrete chunk, in order to bolster it. I glance down, and see thick droplets of blood in the dust around the fire engine and trailing over the nearby rubble, most likely from both Captain Stanley and his engineer, Mike Stoker. I reach the second pile of debris and pick my way across, choosing my footholds and handholds carefully. I notice that Jim has already made it across and is stopped at the base of the pile, evidently waiting for me.

"Took you long enough," he says when I reach him.

"Yeah, well, I'm not a mountain goat like you are," I tell him. I brush the dust off of my hands.

"You're also not as young," he says.

"Thanks for pointing that out to me," I reply. "As if I didn't already know." The two of us trudge on, passing the water spewing violently up from a ruptured water main. We avoid the small river of grey sludgey water that flows towards the gutters; why, I don't know. It's not like our boots aren't already so damned wet, our toes are swimming in them. When we reach the intersection of Palmtree Drive and Adamson Avenue, a huge roar suddenly goes up.

Jim frowns. "What the hell is that?" he asks, looking around.

I nod towards the spectators gathered at the roadblock two blocks away, on Mapletree Drive and Adamson Avenue. They stand behind thick wooden barricades, as news media trucks with tower masts loom behind them. Lighting for the news reporters' cameras give the crowd an unworldly glow, and flashbulbs pop as our pictures are snapped, albeit distantly, by news photographers. The crowd is surged and packed around the black and white squad car of Adam-11, Bob Brinkman and Dave Russo, and the sheriff's car of Deputy Vince Howard. "It's them," I say. "I think they're cheering for us."

"That's a switch," Reed replies dryly. "Usually they're cheering against us." He catches my sleeve, stopping me. "Hey Pete," he says, somewhat hesitantly. "I did do the right thing, didn't I?"

I look at him. "What do you mean?" I ask.

"In terms of Burnside. I did do the right thing in confronting him on the roof and bringing him down, didn't I?"

I study him a moment. "Why are you even questioning that?" I ask. "If you hadn't of gone after him like you did, we would've ended up waiting him out. And that would've been a waste of city resources. So yeah, as foolhardy as your actions were, you did the right thing. Burnside was stopped."

"I doubt Mac will see it the same way," he says dourly.

"Probably not," I tell him. "But whatever disciplinary actions you face for disobeying Mac's orders, I'll face, too. I disobeyed him in going after you."

He smiles dryly. "What a true friend you are, Pete."

"Nah, not a true friend," I reply. "I just didn't want to have to break in a new rookie at my age."

"Yeah, you ARE getting up there in years, Methusalah," he says. "You're getting old and set in your ways."

"Watch it, kid," I grump as I start towards the command post once more. "I'm still senior man in the car. And I can order you to do whatever I want, including writing all the reports out for the next six months."

"Aw, you wouldn't do that to me," he says, falling in next to me. "My hand would come off from all that writing."

"Try me," I tell him, quirking a corner of my mouth up in a slight grin.

The activity around the command post has slowed considerably, now that the situation is no longer a rescue operation, but an investigation and recovery operation. I notice that most of the ambulances and medical personnel has left the triage area, leaving behind a field of medical debris. Mike Hanson, the contractor for the Granite Court building, has also left the scene, likely headed to the station to give his statement regarding Charlie Burnside's work history on the Granite Court site. Mac is waiting for us at the command post when we arrive, his face set stonily as he regards us with clearly undisguised anger. "What in the hell took you two so long to get down here?" he asks.

"We were enjoying the view," Reed quips. His humor quickly fades as Mac fixes him with a thundercloud glower.

"Captain Moore awaiting the report on how the sniper was brought down," Mac snaps. "So he can pass it along to the Mayor and the Chief of Police."

"I pushed him over the side of the building," Reed says quite simply. "I took the distraction offered by Air Ten and shoved him over, after yanking the detonator out of his hand for the bomb he had strapped around his chest. It disabled it, since nothing exploded after he fell."

Mac stares at him for a moment as he digests what Reed has told him. "Well, that would explain why I didn't hear a kill shot being fired," he says. "So Charlie Burnside is officially dead?"

"He's dead," I tell him. "He's lying on top of a pile of rubble, with pieces of rebar sticking up through him. He's not a pretty sight."

Mac picks up the radio mike. "Dispatch from One-L-20, inform Captain Moore that the sniper was pushed over the side of the building and fell to his death. That was how he was neutralized."

"Dispatch copies, One-L-20," she replies.

"You two realize you're in serious trouble, don't you?" he asks, a muscle jumping angrily in his jaw. "For disobeying my direct orders?"

"We do," I say. "And we're prepared to face the consequences due to our disobeying orders. We'll accept whatever disciplinary action is meted out to us."

"Mac, if I hadn't of gone in after him like I did, he'd still be up on the roof of the building," Reed says defensively. "We'd be forced to wait him out. And that would've taken time and resources we don't necessarily have."

"It would've been better for us to wait him out," Mac snaps. "Than have the two of you get killed by that madman, just because you wanted to play hero, Reed."

"I didn't want to play hero," Reed says, his voice rising. "I was only sick of seeing what he'd done today, and I decided to put an end to it!"

"And you not only risked your life, but the life of your partner!" Mac tells him. "And if Burnside was correct in his threat that he had other buildings around here rigged to blow, you could've prompted him into setting those bombs off, killing more innocent people!"

"But I got the goddamned job done!" Reed snaps. "That's something, isn't it?"

"Hey, what's the status of our residences?" I ask, trying to defuse what looks to be a rapidly developing explosive situation right here. "Have the bomb squads cleared them yet?"

Mac turns to me, still angry. "They have," he tells me. "All of our residences are safe. I even had them check out Judy's house, just to be on the safe side. Burnside didn't have anything planted there at any of our homes. We'll get the bomb squads to check out buildings in the area, but my hunch is Burnside was blowing smoke up our asses as far as having other structures set to explode." Mac turns back to Reed. "How in the hell did Burnside manage to get the drop on you in the first place, Reed? You had the kill order to shoot him on sight. What went so wrong up there on that rooftop, that you nearly got the two of you killed?"

"My rifle jammed," Reed says, his eyes snapping fire. "That's how he got the drop on me."

Mac looks at me with narrowed eyes. "And you, what the hell was wrong with you, Malloy, that you didn't shoot at him?"

"He had Reed kneeling in front of him," I tell Mac, a bit of anger seeping into my own voice. "I wasn't about to shoot through my partner. And Burnside held the detonating device for his personal bomb in his hand. I wasn't about to risk firing at him anyway, and having his thumb twitch on the button, blowing us all to kingdom come."

"The bottom line is, Mac, you weren't up on that rooftop with us, nor were you down below running rescues before we even got Burnside," Jim tells him heatedly. "You were back here in the safety of the perimeter, watching from the sidelines. You have no idea what kind of hell it was out there. And until you do, don't you dare to pass judgement on us for what we did."

The muscle in Mac's jaw is really twitching now. "What you two did was foolish, going after Burnside like you did. The both of you disobeyed my direct orders not to enter that building, and you chose to flagrantly disregard them. This matter will be brought up before a disciplinary board, and they will be the ones to determine your punishments."

"Fine," Reed sighs. "We get that."

"Do you?" Mac asks sharply. "Do you get that, Reed? Because I don't think you do, not at all. Your actions are ones I'd expect from a first-year rookie, not a man with seven years on the force." He flicks a glance over at me. "Nor one with fourteen years, Malloy. What in the hell were you two thinking?"

"We weren't…" Reed begins.

"That's right, you weren't thinking," Mac says, cutting him off. The two of them glare angrily at one another.

"Look, is there still anyone left over at the triage area?" I ask, changing the subject. "I slipped and cut my knee on a piece of rebar. I'd like to get it checked out, if I could."

Mac looks at me. "Dr. Brackett and one of the nurses is still over there," he says. "But you'd better get a move on, they're packing up to leave soon."

"Great," I say, grabbing Reed's coverall sleeve. "C'mon, let's go see if we can get some of this dirt washed off of our hands."

Reed balks a minute, then he shoves his hands under Mac's nose, the palms up. "Do you see that, Mac?" he asks sharply. "That's blood from the victims we were pulling out of there." He points to the blood and brains still on his coveralls. "See that? That's from a little girl whose head Burnside blew off, just as I was getting ready to put her into the back of the Armadillo. Both Pete and I have blood on our hands, on our clothes, on our souls…innocent blood. And not all of those people we could save, either. How many of them will die at the area hospitals, because their wounds were too severe or we didn't get to them in time?" He pokes a finger at Mac. "If you had been in that hell, if you were wearing the brains of a little girl on your clothes, then you might understand why I did what I did."

Mac starts to reply, then he closes his mouth with a snap. "We'll deal with this later," he says. "Get over to triage and get checked out, then you need to go over to where the homicide dicks are conducting the debriefing interviews, and get with them to do the walk-through and the interview."

I nod, tugging harder on Reed's sleeve. "C'mon," I say. "Let's go to triage, make sure I'm not gonna get lockjaw from this cut on my knee."

Shooting Mac one last glare, Reed reluctantly turns and follows me. "The way he acts, you'd think I committed a crime, going after Burnside the way I did," he grumbles.

"You have to see it from his point," I say. "Not that it's an easy thing to do right now. He almost lost two of his best officers on that rooftop. And if Burnside was telling the truth and has other buildings rigged to blow, we risked the lives of innocent people."

"I knew you'd take Mac's side, Pete," Reed says somewhat bitterly.

"Hey now, I'm not taking anyone's side," I say, a bit sharply. "I'm just saying, there's two different points of view."

"Yeah, I guess," he says dully. "You're in luck. Dr. Brackett and Dixie haven't left triage yet."

Dr. Brackett and nurse Dixie McCall are helping to pack supplies into the back end of a waiting ambulance. They look up as we approach. "Pete, Jim, what can I do for you?" Dr. Brackett asks. "Are you starting to have problems from your bruise, Pete?"

I shake my head, my hand straying automatically to the spot over my heart where one of Burnside's bullets went through a female victim and into my bulletproof vest. The Kevlar stopped the slug, for which I'm forever grateful. "No," I say. "I slipped on a piece of rebar and cut my knee pretty good."

"Let me have a look," he says. "Have a seat on the back end of the rig."

I sit down on the edge of the ambulance, propping my right foot up on the bumper so he can look at my knee. "How's Captain Stanley and Mike Stoker doing?" I ask.

Brackett inspects the cut carefully. "They were both stable when they were taken away by ambulance to Rampart. Captain Stanley looks to have a broken shoulder and possibly some upper torso and back injuries, while Mike Stoker has a bullet wound in his left shoulder. We flew Stanley out in one of the medevac choppers, while Stoker went in by ground."

"Did their crew go in with them?" Reed asks.

"Hand me that bottle of sterile water, Dix," Brackett tells Dixie. "I need to wash this cut out before I can get an idea of how bad it is."

Dixie hands him the sterile water, twisting the cap off. "It's gonna sting a bit, Pete," she warns me, then she looks at Reed in order to answer his question. "Roy went in with Captain Stanley on the medevac chopper, while Johnny and Chet Kelly rode in with Stoker. Marco Lopez caught a ride to the hospital with Brice and Bellingham."

I draw in a hiss of breath as the water hits the cut on my knee, making it sting and burn rather sharply. "Damn, you weren't kidding," I mutter through clenched teeth.

Dixie laughs. "Would you like me to get you a bullet to bite on, Pete?" she teases affectionately.

"Thanks, but no. I've had enough of bullets for today," I tell her. I give her a long-suffering smile. "But I'm sure I'd feel a lot better if you'd maybe hold my hand," I tease back. Dixie and I go back a long ways, even before I ever had Jim Reed as my patrol partner. Dix and I had dated for awhile, but found out that two stubborn and strong-willed people like us were often at odds in the romance department, butting heads over the silliest things. We decided that our relationship worked better on a friendship basis, and that's the way it's been ever since. And I wouldn't change it for the world, either. "Or maybe you could kiss it for me and make it all better."

"You know, I should tell Judy you're flirting with another woman," Jim tells me.

"No one likes a tattletale, Reed," I warn jokingly.

"I don't think it will need stitches," Brackett tells me, putting a white gauze bandage slathered with antibiotic ointment over it. He takes the tape Dixie hands him and tears off a couple of strips, securing the bandage to my knee. "But you'll need to stop by the hospital the first chance you get, let one of us take a look at it. Are you up-to-date on your tetnaus shot?" he asks.

"Yeah, I am," I tell him, wincing a bit as the antibiotic ointment stings the cut.

Reed gestures to the portable klieg lights that dot the vacant lot, providing more lighting than offered by the street lights and security lights.. "When did they bring these out?" he asks.

"They were brought out before it started getting dark," Brackett tells us. "Once operations are done here in the lot, I imagine they'll be using them where they need them in the scene over there."

Jim points to the small crowd of about thirty or so people standing gathered around a uniformed officer with his back to us. He is speaking to them, and they listen to him intently. "What's going on there?" he asks. "Is that where they've taken the survivors to be debriefed?"

Dixie looks around the side of the ambulance to where Jim is pointing. "No," she says gently. "Those are relatives of the victims still in the park," she says. They stare at the uniformed officer with a variety of expressions on their faces. Some look sad and weary, some look stunned and shocked, while others have the look of resignation and acceptance that their loved ones aren't coming out of the park alive. A few still have hope etched across their faces, and that's the most heartbreaking of all to see.

Jim's eyes meet mine, a glint of anguish in them. "Oh," he says, looking away. "Where's the survivors?"

"I believe they've been taken out of here on a bus," Dixie tells him. "To the police station for interviews. Sergeant MacDonald felt it would be easier on them if they were removed from the scene. It would be less traumatic."

"What about the relatives of the deceased?" Reed asks irritably. "Don't they deserve the same kind of treatment?"

Dixie's eyes widen a bit at his sharp tone. "Easy, Jim," she says soothingly. "They are going to be taken out of here just as soon as possible. They're in the process of trying to find someplace for them to go to, a nearby church maybe, in order for them to be made comfortable while waiting word about the people in the park. Your police chaplain is with them, and he has been ever since Sergeant MacDonald called him out here to assist, a couple of hours after word of the shootings got out, and you guys started pulling people out of the park."

"Sorry," Jim mutters, studying his hands. "I didn't mean to sound snappish, Dixie." He rubs his palms together, as if trying to rid them of the bloodstains.

Brackett pats me on the shoulder. "You're good to go, Pete. But make sure you get to the hospital and get that cut checked out more thoroughly, got it? You don't want infection to set in on it."

"Got it," I say, standing up. "Hey, I don't suppose you guys have something to wash our hands off with, do you?" I ask. "We got pretty dirty during rescue operations."

"I do," Dr. Brackett tells me, and he climbs into the back of the ambulance for a moment, returning with a couple of bottles of sterile water and some towels. "This should do the trick," he says, hopping down. He gives a bottle to Dixie, and as she slowly pours that bottle over my hands, he pours the other over Reed's.

Scrubbing at the bloodstains embedded in my handprints, I'm relieved to see that most of it washes away. Now if it would only do the same for the ones on our souls, I think, glancing over at Reed. "Thanks," I say, as Dixie pours the last of the sterile water over my palms. I take the towel she offers me, drying my hands. "We've got to get going. We still need to be interviewed by homicide," I tell her. "If you guys see any of the Station 51 crew at Rampart, tell 'em that we'll be down to see how Captain Stanley and Mike Stoker are doing as soon as we get the chance." I hesitate. "And thanks for all the help you guys have given out here today," I say. "It's greatly appreciated."

"No thanks necessary," Dixie tells us. "We were just doing our jobs, like you two were."

"Still, though," I say. "Getting a triage area set up so quickly couldn't have been very easy. And then, some of the badly injured that we brought in, it couldn't have been too easy to deal with that, either."

Reed hands Dr. Brackett the towel he was using to dry his hands. "How do you deal with what you've seen out here?" he asks.

"We're trained to handle crisis situations like this, just like you are," Dr. Brackett tells him. "Once the adrenaline hits, your brain kicks into automatic, and you know what you need to do in order to help people."

"No, that's not what I meant," Reed says. "I mean, how do you come to terms with what's happened out here? All the carnage, all the horror, brought on by just one man? How do you cope with it all?"

Brackett is quiet a moment, studying Reed. "People handle what they've seen in cases like this differently," he says. "Some people feel that talking about it helps ease the stress, while others seek different avenues. Some take to drinking or popping pills, while others hide it away, ashamed to reveal their feelings. It's not a good idea to let it fester inside of you, Jim. If you feel the need to talk, I'm always a willing listener. Or if you don't want to talk to me, I'm sure…"

Jim holds his hand up, abruptly cutting Dr. Brackett off. "Never mind," he says sharply. "Forget I asked." He jerks his head at me. "C'mon, Pete, let's go find the detectives who are supposed to interview us." And with that, he strides off across the grassy area that is strewn with medical litter from the triage area.

"I'm sorry," I say with an apologetic shrug. "It's been a really rough day and he's not in the best frame of mind right now." I hurry then, and catch up with him. "That wasn't very nice," I chide. "Brackett was only trying to help, you know."

"I don't need help," he replies. "Not from him, not from anyone. Not even from you, Pete." His tone does not invite any further discussion, and I let the matter drop for now.

As we pass by the area where the relatives of the deceased are waiting, a tiny blonde woman in a peasant skirt and blouse steps out of the crowd and approaches us. I recognize her as the same woman that drove around the barricades early on after the sniper situation first happened, worried about her daughter and her grandchildren in the park. Mac ended up having Chet Kelly drive her back behind the barricades. "Oh, please," she moans, wringing her hands with worry. "Tell me if my daughter and my grandbabies are okay. They were in the park this afternoon, and no one is telling me anything about them. Did they get out safely?" Her eyes hold the frantic hopeful belief of someone who knows deep down that their loved ones are gone, but isn't quite willing to accept it. "My husband and son-in-law have been checking at the hospitals, and they've not been brought in yet. Are there any more survivors left in the park?"

Reed stops. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but we're not allowed to give that kind of information out," he tells her gently. "I'm sure if you wait, they'll have word of your daughter and grandchildren soon enough."

She turns to me and pulls something out of her pocket. She thrusts a crumpled picture under my nose, a family portrait of a young couple seated with their two small children. "This is my daughter and grandkids," she says. "Do they look familiar to you? Do you remember seeing anyone like that in the park?"

With a sinking feeling, I recognize the woman in the picture as the one who took the bullet for me, and her children as the little ones cruelly butchered by Burnside's bullets. I swallow hard and look away. "I'm truly sorry, ma'am, but I can't answer that question for you. You'll need to wait and see what the officials tell you."

"Is there a chance you've maybe missed them in the park?" she asks. "Could there be any survivors left in there that you might have overlooked? Could you go in and check for me? It won't take very long. My daughter's name is Cynthia, my granddaughter is named Bethany, my grandson is…" Her voice trails off as she stares at Reed and I, both of us mutely shaking our heads in sorrow. Realization sinks in and she lets out a low moan. "They're in there, aren't they?" she whispers, tears rolling down her face. "They're not coming out, are they? They're dead. All of them. He killed them, didn't he?"

"I can't answer that," I tell her, feeling helpless. "I'm really very sorry, ma'am."

Her sorrow rapidly turns to anger, and she lashes out at me, stunning both Reed and I with the sheer vehemence of her emotion. "Are you really sorry, you bastard?" she asks in a snarl. "Are you really and truly sorry? My daughter and grandchildren are lying dead inside that park, and you goddamned fools couldn't save them! You're worthless, both of you! Utterly worthless!" Suddenly she strikes out at me with her fist, hitting me right in the heart. "I hope you have to live forever with what's happened out here! I hope you go to bed every night and wake up every morning, thinking of the innocent people you jackasses let die in there! May you two carry that with you until your dying day!"

The police chaplain, Father Tim O'Reilly, quickly approaches her and puts a comforting arm around her. He gives us a sympathetic look. "Come now, Mrs. Howard. These officers did the best they could in such a horrific situation, and you know it. They did what they could to help everyone in the park. None of this is their fault, no one but the gunman is to blame for what has happened out here," he tells her gently. "Now let's let them get back to work, okay?"

"Lousy bastards," she mutters as he leads her away, shooting us both a deadly glare over her shoulder. "They let my daughter and grandbabies get killed by that madman."

We watch as they walk away. "Jesus," Reed mutters, running a hand through his hair. "That was tough to deal with." He glances over at me. "You okay?" he asks, noticing that I'm rubbing the spot on my chest where she struck me.

"Fine," I tell him. "She just hit me where the bruise is at." Looking around, I spot Sergeant Jerry Miller in a small group of people over at the edge of the vacant lot. I point him out. "There's Miller, let's go see if he's ready to interview us."

Jerry is talking to the group, evidently homicide detectives from other stations that have been called in to assist out here. We wait patiently as he speaks. "Make sure they're made as comfortable as possible at the station," he's telling the detectives. "Don't let the media anywhere near them, and make sure that only the homicide detectives working this case are the ones interviewing them. Keep in mind these people have been through hell in a very short period of time, and they musn't be rushed or hurried into giving their statements. Give them all the time in the world, gentlemen, and let them tell their stories as they see fit. Be gentle with them. This has been a very traumatic experience for them, and we don't want to add to their trauma by being irritating or pushy. Do I make myself clear?" When he gets nodded assent from the group, he continues. "Okay, then. Head back to the station and begin interviews." As the small group of men disperses to their cars, Jerry turns to us. "Let me guess, you two are here to be debriefed, right?" he asks.

"No, I thought maybe we'd discuss the weather," I say dryly. "Nice night we're having, isn't it?"

Jerry regards me a moment. "Always the funny man, aren't you, Malloy?"

I shrug. "I try. I'm thinking of taking my stand-up comedy act on the road."

"Yeah, well, don't quit your day job," he tells me.

"Who's interviewing us, you?" Reed asks.

"Ah…no, not me," he says. Another small group of men approaches Jerry, and he holds his hand up to Reed and I. "Just a sec," he tells us as he turns his attention to the new group. I recognize several of them as detectives from Central Division. They all have cameras slung around their necks and are carrying notebooks and clipboards with white paper tags tucked underneath the clips. "Go ahead and begin canvassing the scene," he tells them. "There's DOA's in both the street and the park, so make sure that you search the scene thorougly. If there's any kind of identification on them, go ahead and make a preliminary ID, tag 'em, photograph 'em, and turn 'em over to the coroner's office for removal. The coroner's office will be the one handling the positive ID's, with the help of family members of the victims. Handle the processing of deceased with dignity and respect, and try to maintain the integrity of the crime scene as best as you can. Got it?" This group also nods assent, and Jerry dismisses them with a wave of his hand. "Go to it, then. We've got a large crime scene to process." They disperse and he turns back to Reed and I. "Sorry," he says. "We've got a lot of work to do, not only out here, but back at the station and at the hospitals, too. We've got to interview the wounded victims, too. I don't mind telling you, this whole situation is one huge mess."

"Tell us about it," I say. "We went through it while it was happeneing, Jerry."

"At least you got the bastard," Jerry tells us, a grim smile on his face. "Who was it that shot him?"

"I was the one who got him," Reed says. "And he wasn't shot, I pushed him over the side of the roof."

Jerry's eyebrows quirk up in surprise. "Really," he says in amazement. "Ain't that a feat? What are you, Reed, Superman or something?"

Reed starts to open his mouth to reply, but a voice from in back of us cuts him off. "Sergeant Miller, are these the two officers who brought the sniper down?" asks a familiar staccato tone.

"They are," Jerry tells Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon. "Officers Reed and Malloy."

Friday regards me with a glimmer of amusement, a slight smirk on his face. "I know who they are," he tells Miller. "We've met before. And I'm sure they remember us, especially Officer Malloy."

I exchange a grim look with Reed, then I set my mouth in a thin-lipped smile, completely devoid of any smidgen of friendliness. "Yes, I do, Sergeant Friday. I remember you all too well. You tried to torpedo my career on the police force two years ago with your rabid overzealousness and your claims that I murdered a killer in cold blood. That's a little hard to forget, Sergeant."

"Well, then," Friday says, his eyes cold. "Now that the niceties are out of the way, let's get this interview underway, shall we?" He gestures towards the logistics truck. "Sergeant MacDonald has graciously offered us the use of the logistics truck for the initial interview. Once that is done, we'll get to the walk-through of the scene on the rooftop. Do either of you have a problem with that?"

Reed and I shake our heads no. "Is Sergeant MacDonald going to be sitting in on this?" he asks.

"It'll be Captain Moore that will be sitting in on this interview," Bill Gannon tells Jim and I. "Sergeant MacDonald has yet to be interviewed himself."

"Let's get started," Friday says, and begins to walk towards the logistics truck. Gannon falls in next to him, while Reed and I follow behind.

"I'm not looking forward to this, Pete," Jim whispers to me. "Not at all."

"I know, me neither," I whisper back. "We could've drawn anyone else to do this interview; instead, with our luck, we got Sergeant Friday." Friday hears me mention his name, and he glances over his shoulder at me, giving me an icy look. And dread begins to sink into my stomach, since I know he still doesn't hold me in high regard. But then again, I don't exactly hold Sergeant Joe Friday in high esteem, either.

As we walk towards the logistics truck, a black bomb squad van cruises past us. It slows, and Mac approaches it, evidently giving orders to the men inside. After a few moments, it starts up again, the van crossing over past the safety perimeter into what we called the battlezone. It pulls even with the mired Armadillo, since the debris from the parking ramp allows it no further passage past that point. Four men get out of it, and begin to unload bomb-detecting gear from the rear of the van. Then they make their way across the mounds of rubble.

"What's the bomb squad here for?" Reed asks.

"They need to make sure the Granite Court building and the picnic pavilion in the park are clear of any tripwires or bombs," Gannon tells us. "Just in case Burnside left some surprises behind."

"Jesus," Reed says to me, a bit shocked. "I never even thought that he'd maybe have that building set to blow when I went in after him. I wasn't thinking."

"That's right, you weren't," Sergeant Friday tells him over his shoulder. "And the two of you are mighty damned lucky he didn't have that building set to explode, either."

Reed exchanges worried glance with me. I can tell that neither of us has a good feeling about this impending interview. And we are soon proven correct.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION.** In order to enhance the overall plot experience, creative liberties may have been intentionally taken with the real-life protocols depicted herein.

The four of us walk across the vacant lot in order to return to the logistics truck, Sergeant Friday and Bill Gannon ahead of us, engaged in small talk, while Jim and I lag behind. Jim looks at his watch. "It's after seven," he says. "Jean's probably heard the news on tv or the radio by now." He rubs the bridge of his nose. "I wonder what she's told Jimmy as far as what's happened out here."

"She probably doesn't know the extent of your involvement," I tell him. "Our names haven't been released to the media yet. In fact, the whole situation has yet to be fully released to the public. No one knows who the shooter was, no one knows what exactly went down out here."

"No, but she'll figure it out, Pete. A cop's wife isn't a dummy, they know crap like that instinctively. I guarantee you, the minute she's heard it, she'll realize that you and I were involved in the situation today in some way. My concern is what she'll tell Jimmy," he says.

"He's pretty young to grasp what happened out here, Jim," I say. "I'm sure she'll explain it to him in terms he can understand."

"No, you don't understand, Pete," Jim says, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "Jimmy's six. He's at that age where he is beginning to question everything, including what I do on my job and why."

"So you just tell him that there was a bad man hurting people out here today, and you had to put a stop to the bad man's actions," I say. "I wouldn't elaborate, Jim. He may be one of the brightest kids in his kindergarten class, but he's still a little boy. To him, bad men are big nasty things like dragons and brussel sprouts, while good guys are like Superman and his daddy."

"But…" He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I know Jean's attitude of late. She'll tell him that his daddy had to play hero again, and put himself in harm's way in order to save people, and one of these days his daddy is gonna do that and get badly hurt, or worse yet, not come home at all."

"Surely Jean wouldn't tell him that," I say.

"No?" Jim asks, his tone sharp. "Jean's really changed in recent months, Pete, as far as her feelings towards my job. She tells him that his daddy is gonna get killed one of these days, doing his dangerous job as a cop. She uses that against me every time we have a serious situation on duty. She gets Jimmy all upset, thinking that I'm not going to come home from work, just to prove her point, that the job is dangerous. She thinks that if I realize I'm upsetting my son, I'll take the investigator's exam when it comes up next time. Or better yet, I'll just get a job doing something entirely different." He looks at me, anger and hurt flashing in his eyes. "She uses my OWN son against me, Pete, in an effort to get me to quit the force." He shakes his head. "You know, sometimes when I leave for work and Jimmy's home, he'll start crying, begging me not to leave, because he's afraid I won't come back. What kind of mother does that to her child, to her husband? Uses them like their chess pieces on her personal playing board?"

"Jesus," I say, slightly shocked. "I didn't realize it had gotten that bad, Jim. I'm really sorry to hear that." I put a hand on his shoulder. "If you ever want to talk, I'm here, you know. I'm not the best guy to go to for marital advice, but I can listen."

"I know it," he sighs, shaking my hand off. "We're in couples therapy, Pete, and have been since the narco raid that you got hurt in. We're supposed to be getting our issues worked out, but sometimes it seems like all we do is spin our wheels, you know?"

"Yeah," I say.

"Have a wife and son, do you, Reed?" Sergeant Friday asks, looking over his shoulder at us. Even though he's been speaking with Bill Gannon as we walk, I know that he's likely been listening to every word we've said.

"Yeah, I do. And my wife's pregnant with our second child," Jim tells him. "At least I hope the kid's mine," he mutters under his breath. "And not some other guy's, like Burnside claimed."

"Jim, you oughta know that Burnside was just looking for a cheap shot at you," I tell him. "He knew where to hit you so it would hurt, and he did. So consider the source when you start mulling that over. Burnside was nothing but a lousy, vindictive asshole, who had it in for the world. I don't doubt for a minute that the baby Jean's carrying isn't yours."

"It's easy for you to say, Pete," he replies archly. "Jean's not your wife." He frowns, his forehead creasing into deep lines. "Maybe all those times she's taken Jimmy and gone over to her sister's for some reason, she's really taken him over there for Janice to watch, so she can go out to the bars."

"That's utterly preposterous and you know it," I chide. "I can't believe you're even CONSIDERING anything that Burnside said as the truth, Jim. You know that he was nothing but a lying sack of crap. He just wanted to piss you off, and he succeeded."

"Maybe," Jim says. "And maybe there's a nugget of truth in what he said after all."

"You need to stop thinking that way right now," I tell him. "It's not going to do any good, and all you're doing is giving him the power over you, even after he's dead."

"Yeah, I guess," Reed says with a shrug. "I don't want to discuss it right now, okay, Pete?"

"Fine," I say. "We'll discuss it later."

When we arrive back at the logistics truck, Mac is looking over his clipboard full of notes, most of them hastily scribbled. His forehead is creased in a deep frown, and he looks extremely tired. In the harsh light of one of the portable kliegs set up nearby, he has dark circles under his eyes, his pallor is grey, and the light picks out the silver in his dark hair that is starting to show at his sides and temples. And for the first time in the fourteen years that I've known Bill MacDonald, it dawns on me that Mac is only older than me by just a few years. If an horrific incident like this can take it's toll on me, both emotionally and physically, what must it do to him? As a sergeant, he's a little more sedentary than the patrol officers are, and this kind of stress can't be good on him. While Sergeant Baron, Jim Reed, and I handled the action end of it, Mac had to be the one to take care of the designating and delegating end of it, deciding who needed to be called in and where to put them. A pang of worry crosses me, and I study him, looking for any signs that Mac might be flagging, energy-wise.

As if he senses my scrutiny of him, he looks up at us. "I'll be out of your way as soon as Captain Moore gets here," he says wearily. "Then you can have the logistics van for your interview, Sergeant."

A city water department truck pulls even with the logistics van. "Understand you've got a busted main that needs to be shut off?" the driver of the van asks Mac.

"Yeah, just beyond the squad car there at Palmtree and Adamson," Mac tells him. "Can you get access to the shutoff without having to tear up any pavement?"

The guy nods. "Yeah, the shutoff valve is right here on the corner. We can get it shut down for ya in a few minutes."

"Good," Mac says. "Just don't go beyond the water main. The area is an active crime scene."

"Wouldn't dream of it," the guy replies. The truck inches forward until it's even with Adam-12, then it stops. The driver and another employee get out and pull out some equipment from the back end of the truck. They approach the busted main spewing water into the air, and with a few metallic clanks and shuddering thunk, the water ceases to skyrocket. They return to the truck and back it up, pulling even with us once more. "Be advised, that shuts off all the water to this area, including any sprinkler systems that are in these buildings. We'll go ahead and notify the fire department that the main is shut down here in this vicinity. You might also be aware that the pavement around that break is likely undermined, so ya wanna watch the traffic around it, in case of sinkholes."

"Great," Mac says. "Thanks."

"Not a problem," the guy says, and then he backs the truck up to the roadblock on Palmtree and Morris.

"I suppose we could go ahead and start the interviews," Sergeant Friday says.

"Not without Captain Moore present," Mac tells him, still looking at his clipboard.

"We could just get the basic information, their serials and time on the job…" Friday begins again.

Mac looks up from the clipboard and cuts him off with a glare. "I said, not without Captain Moore being present. I will not allow either Officer Reed, nor Officer Malloy, to be interviewed at all until their commanding officer is present." His tone is sharp and no-nonsense.

"But you're their commanding officer out here now, so I'm not sure why that's an issue," Friday says in protest. "Surely you can stand in for Captain Moore until he arrives?"

Mac gives him a look that could sear the skin right off of Friday's mug. "Captain Moore gave me EXPRESS orders not to allow the interviews to begin until he got out here himself. In addition, I have yet to give my own statement to the homicide team, so I feel it would be a little improper for me to sit in on an interview regarding a situation I was an active party to."

"Could we at least tag the weapons they were using?" Gannon asks. "In order to turn them over to Ballistics?"

Mac regards him for a moment. "Fine," he says. "As long as that's all that you do."

Gannon pulls two white tags with strings dangling from them out of his suitcoat pocket. He looks at Reed. "Officer Reed, may I please have your weapon?"

Reed hands the M-16 over to Bill Gannon. "Reed, James A. Serial 13985," he tells him.

Gannon scribbles that onto the tag, along with the date and the time the weapon was tagged as evidence. He ties the tag around the muzzle of the gun, and turns to me.

"Malloy, Peter J.," I tell him, handing him the gun. "Serial 10743."

"Thanks," he says, scribbling that onto the tag and attaching it to the gun. He starts to take them around to the trunk of their unmarked sedan.

"I only told you that you could tag them, not take them into evidence," Mac says.

"I was just going to put them in the trunk of the car," Gannon says. "That's all."

"And a lot can happen from the time you do that, until you turn the weapons over to Ballistics," Mac says. "I'm not releasing any evidence to you two in regards to these two officers until Captain Moore gets here and okays it."

"Are you implying that something dishonest might happen to their weapons while in our custody?" Sergeant Friday challenges.

"I'm not implying that at all, Sergeant," Mac tells him coolly. "It's just that I've seen you in action in the past, especially in regards to Officer Malloy, and I would not feel comfortable in allowing anything concerning these officers under my command to be taken into your custody without the express knowledge and consent of their captain, Captain Moore." He offers Friday a small tight smile. "I'm sure you understand, Sergeant."

Friday stares daggers at him for a moment. "Alright, Sergeant MacDonald. We'll await the arrival of Captain Moore." He jerks his head at Bill Gannon and the two of them return to their grey sedan. Friday leans against the hood and lights up a cigarette, never taking his sharp-eyed gaze off of us.

Over in the vacant lot, they're moving the smaller klieg lights out in order to set them up in the scene. The ambulance containing Dr. Brackett and Dixie has departed, and all that's left of the triage area is a bunch of medical debris.

"Who's gonna clean that mess up?" Reed asks, gesturing to the white clumps of bloody bandages and other detrius left behind from the harried and frenzied triage area.

"City works will have a haz-mat crew come in and clear it out," Mac tells him. He nods his head at us. "Why don't the two of you go ahead and get your gear out of Adam-12, put it here by my car?" he asks.

"Won't we be driving Adam-12 back to the station?" Reed asks.

Mac shakes his head. "No. I'll have Gus Baron drive it back, since his Armadillo is stuck. When the refrigerated trucks from the coroner's office get here, I'll place them as close as possible to the scene, just to keep the media from getting shots of the bodies being removed from the park. I'll want the squad car out of the way for that."

"So how do we get back?" Reed asks.

"Captain Moore will drive you in when the interviews are done. There's a bunch of press camped out around the station, so he'll want to shield you from that," Mac says.

"How do they know it was SWAT members from Central Division that got Burnside?" Reed asks.

"They don't," Mac tells him. "And we're trying to keep it that way, until the police department is ready to release your identities to the public."

"What if we don't want them released?" he asks.

"That's not an option," Mac tells him. "And you should know that, Reed. A big incident like this, the media is going to press for all the facts, including the names of the men who got Burnside." He shrugs. "Look at it this way, Jim. You'll become famous as the man who got the LA sniper."

"I don't want to be famous," Jim mutters, shaking his head with irritation. "I just want to be Jim Reed." With that, he stalks off towards Adam-12 to retrieve his gear.

"What's with him?" Mac asks me. "Everything okay?"

I study Reed's retreating back. "No," I say. "But it's up to him to tell you, not me." Then I go over to the squad car myself.

Reed has already opened the trunk of the car and gotten his helmet bag out. Without looking at me, he goes to the passenger side of the squad and opens the rear door, pulling his briefcase out. Then he opens the front door, pulling his nightstick out of the holder on the door. He slams the door, hard, making the squad rock, and he slaps the report book on top of the hood.

"Hey, take it easy," I tell him, getting my helmet bag and briefcase out of the trunk and shutting the lid. "No need to beat up my car, Jim."

"It's not your car, you know, Pete," he tells me sharply. "Other officers drive it when you aren't on duty."

"Lighten up on me, willya?" I ask, grabbing my nightstick and the logbook from inside the car. "I was only trying to be funny."

He doesn't answer me, instead he stalks back to Mac's wagon, dumping his gear onto the ground next to the car with a thud. He opens the report book, studying the few reports that we made out before getting the sniper call. He hands them, along with his set of keys to the squad car, to Mac. "There's the few reports that we filled out earlier on our shift," he says. "They're all done, if you want to take them now."

"That's fine," Mac tells him, taking the keys and the reports from Jim, tucking the papers up under the clip on his clipboard.

I dump my gear next to Reed's and hand Mac the logbook and the keys from the squad car. "I'm not sure what you want done with the logbook," I tell him. "Whether you want it left with the car or turned over to you."

Mac looks over the entries that we made today. He hands it back to me. "Here, you two sign off on it, and I'll let them have it for now," he says, nodding his head at Gannon and Friday.

I sign my name first to the logbook, then hand it to Reed, who takes it without a word, scribbling his signature and shoving the book back at me. He turns his attention back to the reports in hands, but I can tell his mind is far from them right now.

Mac takes the logbook out of my hands, studying it for a moment. He approaches Sergeant Friday hands it over to him. "Here," he says. "You can go ahead and start copying the information you need out of the logbook. I'll give you that much."

"Much obliged," Sergeant Friday says with a slight smirk. He gives it to Bill Gannon to copy into his notebook. "Bill, go ahead and start on the logbook entries, seeing as Sergeant MacDonald is so gracious to let us do that much right now." His tone holds a sharp edge of contempt for Mac.

Mac ignores him and goes back to his clipboard, perusing his notes. "Val should be here any minute now," he tells us. "In order to get the interviews underway."

"One-L-20 from One-Adam-14?" asks Jerry Woods' voice over the radio.

"This is One-L-20, go ahead Adam 14," Mac replies.

"I've got the Red Cross Mobile Canteen truck here, along with Canton Waste Disposal. Do you want me to go ahead and send them through?"

"Yeah, send them through. Advise them to go ahead and set up in the vacant lot," Mac says.

"Roger, Mac. Sending them through."

In a few moments, a large truck with a red cross emblazoned on the side comes chugging down the street. It's followed by a small flatbed truck, with two Porto-Johnnies aboard.

Mac waves the driver of the Red Cross canteen truck into the vacant lot. "Set up as close as you can here to the entrance," he tells the guy. "It looks like it's gonna be a long night ahead."

"Got it," the driver tells him. As he swings the canteen truck into place, the flatbed truck with the porta-potties aboard stops.

"Where do you want these unloaded?" the driver asks Mac.

Mac studies the vacant lot. "How about just a little ways past the canteen unit?" he says, gesturing to the middle of the vacant lot.

"Sure, wherever you want them," the guy says, and he pulls on into the lot to begin unloading the portable toilets.

"You've thought of everything, Mac," I say, a wry grin quirking at my mouth. "I commend your foresight."

"Don't knock it," Mac tells us. "When ya gotta go, ya gotta go, and there ain't much of an area to do that in out here in a crime scene." He turns his attention back to his notes, silently scanning his documentation of the sniper incident out here. I'm sure he's gone over the notes several times already, but with the presence of Sergeant Friday and Bill Gannon, the urge to talk amongst ourselves is tempered and shut off. I know Mac is just waiting to chew our asses for disobeying his orders, but he wisely chooses not to light into us at this point. After all, there shouldn't be an audience to an execution, especially an audience like Friday, who would delight in hearing of our misdeeds.

Reed is leaning against Mac's wagon, his arms folded on top of the roof, his chin resting on his hands. He's staring moodily into space, his mind millions of miles away from the right here and right now. It's not hard to know what he's thinking about; his wife and son, and how he's going to explain what happened out here today. As I study him, I feel a sharp stab of dislike for Jean Reed, for putting Jim through all that she has over the last few months. Things weren't great between them prior to the springtime narco raid in which Jim was ultimately awarded the Medal Of Valor for saving my life, but they've gotten increasingly worse since then. Jim's spent more than a few nights on my couch, bunking there because Jean threw him out. She seems to delight in picking fights with him over the smallest things, and while he might fear for the sanctity of his marriage, I fear for the sanctity of his sanity. The untold stress she's put on him has taken a toll on his good nature; he's gone from a rather happy-go-lucky guy to someone prone to sour moods and silence. And that's put a strain on our relationship as patrol partners in Adam-12, for the usually talkative Reed has steadily become morose and silent. And it's definitely put a strain on our friendship; Jim Reed is the closest thing I have to a brother, and I hate like hell to just standing by and see him hurt, without being able to do a goddamned thing about it, other than be there for him when he needs a friend. Silently, I follow his faraway gaze out over the vacant lot, to the lights of Los Angeles in the distance, that cast an orange pallor to the dark sky overhead. I wish I could offer you some soothing words of comfort right now, partner, but I can't, I think to myself. This is a battle you have to fight on your own, and all I can do is be there for you, and help you pick up the pieces of your shattered world if the final blow comes and Jean asks you for a divorce.

Closing my eyes, my thoughts jump from the marital troubles between the Reeds to my own relationship with Judy Smith, my girlfriend of over a year. While I know that I love her, I'm not sure if I'm ready to marry her and settle down. I've been burned on that end before, having a rather brief marriage when I was a lot younger, and living in Seattle. It didn't end well at all, and I have remained a happy bachelor ever since, thus avoiding all mention of marriage, up until now. Judy has been dropping hints about the two of us getting hitched, especially after the narco shootout in which I got shot. She has gotten a little more vocal about the issue of marriage as of late, pointing out that if I truly loved her and her young son, David, I'd make an honest woman of her by putting a gold ring on her finger and giving her my last name. And while that's true, there's just something that makes me feel like putting a ring on her finger is just tightening the noose around my neck. Reflexively, I rub my throat, as if feeling the noose already tightening. It's a delicate dance we do around the sore subject of marital bliss; she jitterbugs her way around the arguable points for marriage: she's not getting any younger, I'm not getting any younger, she'd like David to have a strong father figure in his life, she'd like to try to have a child with me before she gets too old and pregnancy becomes too dangerous for her, it would be beneficial for both of us financially, and we'd each have the other to love and care for in our old age.

And for all of her jitterbugging and cajoling for marriage, I somehow manage to waltz and glide away from it, easing my way around it with some excuse each time: we're not that old yet, I don't want to make her a widow if I'd get killed in the line of duty, I'm not sure I want to start a family, and if she thinks marriage works, she needs to look at the trouble the Reeds are going through right now. The honest truth is, I don't feel the same way about Judy as I felt about my first wife, Evie. Judy is more of a comfortable love, a solid, steady love, one that you can always count on being there in times of trouble. Evie was…well, Evie was unbridled passion and fireworks, the feeling that I would die when I wasn't around her. I hungered for her, yearned for her, and it was that powerful hold that she had on me that ultimately broke my heart when she cast me out for another. And for some reason, I can't bring myself to feel the same way about Judy, which is frustrating. Sighing, I scrub my hand across my face, fatigue settling in as those thoughts jumble and tumble around in my weary mind. I push them out, focusing instead on what lies ahead of us, mainly getting through the interview with Sergeant Friday and Bill Gannon without strangling the good Sergeant with his tie.

The delicious aroma of hot coffee wafts over on the breeze that tickles my nose, and my stomach grumbles loudly, making me realize that I'm a bit hungry, not to mention thirsty. I open my eyes and look over at Mac. "Mind if we go grab a cup of coffee?" I ask. "And maybe a doughnut?"

"As long as you bring something back for me," Mac tells us. "I'll take mine black, and I wouldn't mind having a doughnut."

"C'mon," I say, tugging on Reed's sleeve. "Let's go grab some coffee, huh?"

He starts at my touch, bringing his mind back to focus on the here and now. "What?" he asks.

"Coffee," I say. "You know, the drink of the gods?" I gesture to the Red Cross Mobile Canteen. "Let's go grab some, whaddaya say?"

"Oh, sure," he says, slowly following me. "Coffee would be great right now."

A cheery blonde woman waits on us at the canteen. "What can I do you for?" she asks, flashing us a bright smile.

"Three coffees and three doughnuts, please," I tell her.

"You want cream or sugar with those coffees?" she asks.

"No, two will be black…" I begin.

Reed interrupts me. "We'll take all three black," he says. "Thanks."

I cast him a puzzled glance, Reed usually takes a bit of cream and sugar in his coffee, but he ignores me, taking two of the proffered styrofoam cups filled with steaming black drink, while he nods at me to grab the three doughnuts the woman lays atop the counter. "Thanks," I say, taking the wax-paper wrapped glazed pastries and one of the other cups of coffee. "It's appreciated."

"There's more where that came from," she calls to us, then she turns to wait on a couple of detectives.

Reed hands Mac a cup of coffee while I hand him a doughnut. "Thanks," Mac says, taking a bite of the doughnut. "Mmm," he says, closing his eyes in ecstasy. "They're freshly made and still hot."

"You realize we're living up to the typical cop stereotype, don't you?" I ask, taking a bite of my own doughnut.

"How's that?" Reed mutters around a mouthful of pastry.

"The usual crap about cops always having nothing better to do than sit around eating doughnuts and drinking coffee," I say.

"Yeah, but I'd say we deserve this," Reed says, taking a sip of coffee. "Especially after a hellish day like today."

"You know, Sergeant," Sergeant Friday pipes up from where he's leaning against the hood of their grey sedan. "We could've started these interviews already and had them halfway over with by now. It's a little ridiculous to keep us waiting like this."

"Captain Moore had specific instructions not to allow the interviews to begin with Officer Reed and Officer Malloy until he was on the scene," Mac tells him. "I'm merely following his orders, Sergeant."

Friday lets out a disgusted sigh and shakes his head. "This is utterly asinine," he mutters under his breath.

Sergeant Gus Baron returns to the logistics truck from giving his statement to one of the homicide detectives. "If you don't need me any longer, Mac, I'm gonna head on back to the station," he tells Mac. "I've gotta get the SWAT gear back there yet, and plan for a debriefing tomorrow afternoon."

"Yeah, fine," Mac tells him, swallowing the last of his doughnut. He fishes in his pocket for the keys to Adam-12, handing them off to Gus. "Go ahead and drive the squad back in, since the Armadillo is stuck out there."

"Any idea on when it might be freed?" Gus asks.

Mac shakes his head. "Whenever the crime scene is released and city works gets in here to clean up the debris. I'll let you know as soon as possible."

"Okay, great," Gus tells him, picking up one of the bulletproof vests and helmets we used earlier.

Setting my coffee on the roof of Mac's wagon, I grab one of the vests and helmets, too, in order to help Gus. Reed does the same, and we get the equipment loaded into the back of Adam-12.

"Thanks," Gus says. "You know, you two were a great asset out there in the field today, and I want to congratulate you both for keeping your cool under such extreme circumstances."

"It wasn't all us," I say. "Paramedic John Gage deserves a lot of the credit, too. He was a pretty gutsy guy, going in on the rescues with us without considering the danger to himself."

"So does the Armadillo," Reed says. "It more than proved its worth out there today. Without it, I don't know what we would've done."

"Yeah, let's just hope we never have to use it again, except for training exercises," Gus tells us, climbing into the driver's seat of Adam-12. "There's going to be a SWAT debriefing tomorrow afternoon at one o'clock, covering the techniques and tactics we used out here today. You two will need to be there."

"Got it," I say. "We'll be there."

Gus nods to Reed and I. "When you get ready to change out of those coveralls, just toss 'em. There's no way we can reuse them." Then he starts the car, putting it into gear. He carefully swings Adam-12 into a U-turn and drives slowly up the street, dust from the damaged parking ramp sifting off of the top and sides of the car.

"He needs to run it through the car wash," I remark. "Get some of that concrete dust off of it."

Reed watches the taillights, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coveralls. "Yeah," he says, his tone dull. "I guess."

I look over at him. "Do you want to go somewhere after work and talk when this is all over with?" I ask him.

He shakes his head. "No. As soon as we're released from duty, I'm going home to my family, providing Jean isn't on the warpath and decides to throw me out." He gives me a small smile that is not like Jim Reed at all. "Thanks, though, Pete."

"Anytime," I say, worry for his state of mind flashing through me once more. And for a brief moment, I feel like I'm looking at the ghost that used to be Jim Reed. I shake my head, chasing that thought from my mind.

"Looks like Val's here," he says, nodding at a pair of oncoming headlights.

The black sedan of Captain Val Moore pulls up and parks behind the unmarked detective car of Sergeant Friday and Bill Gannon. Val's car is equipped with a single red flashing light on the dashboard, and he reaches up, turning it off. If he had the siren going prior to his arrival, he's shut it off since getting here. He climbs out of the car, dressed in a dark suit and tie, carrying a clipboard. "Sergeant Friday, Officer Gannon," he says, as he strides past the two detectives. "If you don't mind, I'd like a word with my three officers in private for a moment."

"Sure, go ahead," Friday says, grumbling. "We've waited all THIS time to get the interviews started, why not wait a little longer?"

Val stops, turning around to face Friday. "Why, did you have something more pressing that needed to be done, Sergeant?" he asks a bit sharply.

"No," Friday says. "We've just been waiting awhile, that's all."

"Then I'm sure you can wait just a few moments longer, Sergeant," Val tells him dismissively.

"What's up, Captain?" Mac asks the man who used to be our lieutenant, until getting promoted to Captain in the Wilshire Division. When Captain Grant retired, Val put in for a transfer back to Central, and he's been the Captain of our division since mid-summer.

"Let's go around the side of the truck," Val says, gesturing. "Out of earshot." When we do, Val continues. "This situation out here has gone globalwide as far as the media coverage. Other news outlets have picked the story up and are reporting on it. We've gotten calls at the station from as far away as Great Britain. Governor Brown is expected to release a statement later on tonight concerning this incident, and President Ford has been kept apprised of what has happened out here. He'll likely be giving a statement himself, sometime either tonight or tomorrow, once the facts are all in. Mayor Bradley has got a press conference scheduled for this evening, and there will be another news conference tomorrow afternoon at City Hall. That one the three of you will be expected to attend, so that the public can get an official look at the men who brought down the sniper. There may be a question-and-answer segment by the press, I don't know for sure. It's up to the Mayor and the Chief of Police."

"Why do they want to talk to us?" Reed asks, dismayed. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable doing that, Captain."

"Reed, what's happened out here has only happened a couple of other times in large cities. Mark Essex in Atlanta, and Charles Whitman in Austin. The fatality count is high, and the fact that it happened in a park, with children among many of the victims, makes it all the more horrifically newsworthy," Val tells him.

"What's it like back at the station?" Mac asks.

"Media everywhere," Val says with a grimace. "We've had to put them behind barricades in order to keep the driveway and the entrances clear. It's the same in the dispatch room, the phones are ringing off the hook. I've got our police spokesman, Sergeant Philip Anders, fielding the press, and I've got two other dispatchers working taking calls from concerned relatives of people in the park. I've been trying to keep the Mayor and the Police Chief advised of what's going on out here." Val shakes his head. "It's the same at the two hospitals, Rampart and Central Receiving. They've had to put barricades up to keep the media at bay, preventing them from getting in and conducting inteviews with the wounded. It's almost worse than an earthquake. At least with an earthquake, the media vultures don't usually descend upon the stunned and the grieving." He gestures to Mac. "I've got cars coming out here at eight o'clock to relieve your officers on roadblock duty. Sergeant Broward will be out here to take over command so that you can give your statement to Sergeant Miller. Once you give your statement, Mac, you are free to go home."

"What time's the press conference in the morning?" Mac asks.

"Eleven o'clock. I don't need to remind any of you that you will need to be in uniform," Val says. He clears his throat, looking at Reed and I. "Now then. Give me a brief rundown of what transpired out here, so that I don't have any surprises sprung on me during the interview with Sergeant Friday."

"We got the call a little after noon to assist the Los Angeles County Fire Department. Their paramedic unit was pinned down by sniper fire," I say. "When we arrived on scene, we confirmed that we had an active shooter in the vicinity, and we notified Sergeant MacDonald. Once he got on scene, the decision was made to call out the SWAT unit, and Sergeant Baron brought in the Armadillo at our request. Once the Armadillo got here, Reed and I suited up and began rescue operations in the park."

"Why didn't county take over command?" Val asks. "It's in their jurisdiction."

"I took over the role as primary incident commander when I was informed that the county already had a hostage situation that was ongoing elsewhere, and most of their deputies and their SWAT team was tied up with that," Mac says.

"So you and Reed went in and began rescue operations, right? With Sergeant Baron piloting the Armadillo?" Val asks.

"Eh…" I hesitate. "Well, there was a third person aboard the rig, too."

Val stares at me. "Who?"

"Paramedic John Gage," I tell him. "He and his partner, Roy DeSoto, were the two medics pinned down by Burnside's fire. Once we got them out of danger, Gage got in his head that he could help us out in the field."

Val turns a hard gaze to Mac. "And you went along with this, Sergeant MacDonald?" he asks sharply, his eyebrows raised.

Mac shakes his head. "I had no choice, Captain. John Gage managed to slip past us the first time and stow away on board the Armadillo. Once it was evident that he was indeed, of valuable assistance during the rescue operations, it was decided to allow him to function in that capacity, despite the misgivings of both his Captain and I."

"To be fair, Captain," Reed says. "Gage was outfitted with a bulletproof vest and helmet."

"That doesn't matter," Val says angrily. "You allowed an unauthorized and unqualified person aboard a SWAT vehicle, performing a function best left up to members of the police department. You should have pulled him off at the first chance you had, and placed him under arrest, if necessary, in order to keep him from pulling such a dangerous stunt."

"I fully apologize, Captain," Mac tells him in a clipped tone. "But the man did do good out there. Without his help, I'm sure the operations wouldn't have gone as smoothly or as quickly as they did."

Val studies Mac for a moment, then he speaks, his expression grim. "That's fine, Sergeant. And once you get done giving your statement to Sergeant Miller and return to the station, you are on paid leave pending an investigation into this matter. This may be brought before a disciplinary board, do I make myself clear?"

"Very," Mac says coolly, with a sharp nod of his head.

Val turns back to us. "Go on, Malloy. After rescue operations were complete, what happened next?"

"By that time, the sniper had been identified as Charlie Burnside," I say. "We made plans to go in and get him, utilizing the parking ramp. Unfortuantely, Burnside blew those plans all to hell, along with the ramp, when he saw the Armadillo approaching. Debris from the ramp trapped Captain Stanley from Station 51 inside the fire truck. We managed to get off-board the rig, and after trying to assist the fire crew in freeing their man, Mac ordered us back to the command post. Once we got here, Burnside made contact with us via a CC unit, and began to taunt us. He got angry with us and took a shot at the fire crew of Engine 51, injuring one of the firefighters in the shoulder. That was when Reed got mad and went after Burnside. I chased after Reed, and after a brief standoff on the rooftop of the Granite Court building, Reed managed to shove Burnside over the edge of the roof, sending him to his death."

"Officers Malloy and Reed acted against my direct orders, I might add," Mac says. "The plan was to wait Burnside out, not charge in and take him down. Officer Reed took it upon himself to go after Burnside. Officer Malloy followed his partner."

"I wasn't going to let him get killed," I say with irritation.

"Oh Jesus," Val says, rubbing his forehead. "Okay, what happened on the rooftop? It's my understanding that you didn't get a chance to fire a kill shot at Burnside, is that correct, Officer Reed?"

Reed nods. "He had dynamite strapped around his chest, with the detonator in his hand. In addition, the rifle jammed, rendering it useless. Burnside took me hostage, and when Pete arrived, he held Pete at bay, pointing a gun to my head and promising to blow us all up. Pete was forced to back down."

"At that point, I heard the conversations going on between the men, thanks to Malloy leaving his CC unit open," Mac says. "I ordered Air Ten to fly by, hopefully long enough to distract Burnside, allowing either Reed or Malloy to get the drop on him. Luckily, it worked. Reed yanked the detonator out of Burnside's hand and shoved him off of the roof."

Val sighs heavily, shaking his head and closing his eyes. "There will likely be a disciplinary hearing for the two of you, also, for disobeying Sergeant MacDonald's orders, do you understand?"

"We do," I say.

"Once the two of you get back to the station, you're also on paid leave, pending an investigation," Val says. "And I'm sure I don't need to remind you gentleman that you are NOT to talk to anyone about anything out here, once you are released from duty. That means no telling the wife or kids what happened, or regaling the neighbors with what you did. And for God's sake, if any member of the press approaches you, decline comment." He looks at Reed and I. "Is that all?" he asks. "As far as how it went down out here?"

"It is," I say.

"Good," Val says. "Sergeant MacDonald, why don't you go ahead and go over to where Sergeant Miller is at, and see if he can start taking your statement? Sergeant Broward should be here any moment, and he'll take over at the command post. Is there anything he should know?" Val pulls out a pen and prepares to take notes on the pad attached to his clipboard.

"The refrigerated morgue trucks should be arriving out here shortly," Mac says. "When they get here, I want them placed as close to the scene as possible, to keep the press from getting shots of the bodies being removed from the park. As far as anything else, it's mostly a mop-up operation now. We'll keep the roadblocks in place overnight and into tomorrow, at least. A bus should be arriving to take the relatives of the deceased over to Good News Baptist Church, two blocks from here. The police chaplain is already on scene out here to assist with them, and if he needs anything, he'll let Sergeant Broward know. It's mostly in the hands of the homicide dicks now. Main operations on that end is Sergeant Miller's responsibility. The uniform patrol is now shifting primarily into a support and maintain capacity." Mac points to the rubble of the parking ramp. "City works and the parks department have been notified of the debris and damage out here, but they've been advised they will not be allowed access until the scene is released. Same with the keyholders for the surrounding buildings, no entry until the scene is cleared. The bomb squads are making a sweep of the Granite Court building and the area around it, looking for any surprises Burnside might have left behind. The water is shut off out here, due to a broken water main that occurred when the ramp blew, so none of the buildings have working sprinkler systems at this time. The water department was going to notify the fire department of that. The Red Cross canteen unit will be here until they're no longer needed." Mac shrugs. "That's about it, Captain."

"Good," Val says, tearing the notes off and tucking them into his pocket. "I'll let Sergeant Broward know as soon as he gets here. Unless you can think of anything, go ahead and go over to Sergeant Miller."

Mac turns to us. "You two need to get your uniform shirts and gunbelts out of my car," he says. "Since Val will be the one driving you back."

"Yes, about that," Val says, stopping us. "When we get done with the walk-through, you two will need to change out of the coveralls and back into your uniforms. We don't want the press to realize that you two were the ones who got Burnside just yet."

"What good's that gonna do?" Reed asks. "They'll see you bringing us in and figure it out anyway."

"No, as far as they know, you two are just two officers I'm bringing in from the site. You could be officers who worked the barricades and I've brought you into the station because it's the end of your watch," Val says. "They won't know the difference." A pair of headlights bouncing off the side of the logistics truck herald the arrival of Sergeant Broward. Val pulls the notes from his pocket and hands them to Mac. "Give these to him, fill him in on the situation out here, and then get over to Miller. And remember, the press conference is at eleven o'clock in the morning, but the three of you need to be at the station by ten, so we can go over your statements and get you over to City Hall."

"You mean coach us on what we can and can't say," Reed says.

"I didn't say that," Val tells him. "It's just an advisory meeting, that's all."

"We've got a SWAT debriefing at one," I tell Val. "Will we be out of there in time to make it?"

"I would think so," Val says. "Just to be on the safe side, I'll request Sergeant Baron move it back to two, okay?" When we nod, he glances down at his clipboard and says, "Alright then, let's get this show on the road. I'm sure Sergeant Friday and Officer Gannon are chomping at the bit to get the interview underway." He gestures to our gear on the ground by Mac's wagon. "Why don't you two grab your gear and we'll put it in the trunk of my car?" he suggests.

Sergeant Friday looks up as we come around the back of the truck. "Captain," he says, his tone a bit snide. "I trust that we can get started on the interviews now?"

"Yes," Val says, nodding. "Just as soon as they get their gear stowed away." He hands me the keys to his car.

As Reed and I stash our helmet bags and briefcases in the trunk of Val's car, I take my uniform shirt, shoes, and gunbelt, laying them on the backseat of his car. Reed does the same, so that we can change back into them prior to leaving for the station.

Val is studying the M-16's we used in the field. "I see you've gone ahead and tagged the weapons," he says to Sergeant Friday.

"Yes, Sergeant MacDonald allowed us to do that," Friday tells him. "And he was also gracious enough to allow us to copy the entries out of their logbook. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to put their weapons in the trunk of our car, in order to take them to Ballistics."

Val smiles a bit, a cold little smile that could freeze a polar bear's nuts. "I'll place them in the trunk of my car, Sergeant. They will be taken to our Ballistics division at Central for testing." He cocks his head a bit, still smiling icily. "You're certainly welcome to follow us into the station after the interview and walk-through is completed, in order to quickly get the evidence you need. But since this is a Central Division incident, any and all evidence pertaining to the matter out here will be handled in-house. I'm sure you understand, Sergeant. We don't want any hint of impropriety or whiff of misconduct…especially since you're the one quite fond of following the rules to the letter."

Friday matches Val's grin with an icicle one of his own. "Fair enough, Captain. Officer Gannon and I will be more than happy to accompany you to the station once we're through out here."

"Officer Reed, Officer Malloy, please place your weapons in the trunk of my car," Val says, handing us the M-16's.

"Do I detect a bit of a grudge match?" Reed whispers to me as we put the guns away.

I shake my head. "Val's only watching out for us," I whisper back. "Remember, he holds no love for Sergeant Friday, either, just like Mac and I don't. Friday's a damned good detective, but his interrogation techniques leave much to be desired at times. I found that out once already, now it's your turn." I look at Jim. "Don't let him get you flustered or angry, keep your cool, no matter what. He'll try anything to rattle you, just to detect anything you might be hiding. He'll make you feel like a criminal more than a cop, so keep that in mind. It's his job to be hard-hitting, and he does it well." I slam the trunk lid shut.

Reed sighs with disgust. "Pete, I've handled interviews before and come out just fine. Quit worrying."

"But you've never been interviewed by Sergeant Friday," I say. "Except for when you were in the hospital after the Walters' incident."

"What's there to it?" he asks, following me back to the logistics truck. "I'm not afraid of him, Pete."

I shake my head. "I'm just trying to prepare you, that's all."

Val takes a tape recorder and microphone from the front seat of his car. "I hope you gentlemen won't mind that I record this interview," he says, holding the recorder and microphone up. "Just for the sake of truth and validity," he adds. "It gives us an official record to look back on, should any questions arise later on down the road."

Friday stares at him a moment, his eyes glittering maliciously, a muscle working in his jaw. Val's tactic seems to have thrown him a bit. "That's fine, Captain," he says crisply. "I have no problem with that."

"Good," Val says, setting the tape recorder and microphone up in the back of the logistics truck. "Let's begin then, shall we?" He pushes the 'play' button on the tape recorder and speaks into the mike. "This is the initial interview with Officers Peter J. Malloy and James A. Reed, regarding their involvement in the sniper situation on Granite Court, dated September 21st, 1975. Time of interview, 20:00 hours. Detectives conducting the interview are Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon, of police headquarters. Present for the interview is the commanding officer of Central Division, Captain Valman Moore," he says. With that, he nods curtly to Sergeant Friday. "The interview may now begin."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION.** In order to enhance the overall plot experience, creative liberties may have been intentionally taken with the real-life protocols depicted herein.

"Starting with the senior man in the car, I'll need your name, serial, and time on the job," Sergeant Friday tells us, as Bill Gannon is poised to take notes in the notepad attached to his clipboard.

"Malloy, Peter J.," I say. "Serial 10743. It'll be fourteen years on November fifteenth."

"Reed, James A.," says Jim. "That's spelled with a double 'e', too. Serial 13985. It was seven years this past July seventh."

"Who was in charge of the situation out here?" Friday asks. "Until Sergeant MacDonald arrived and set up the command post?"

"I was," I tell him.

"Who was the one who brought the sniper down eventually?" he asks.

"I was," Reed tells him. "I didn't shoot him, either, I…"

"I don't need that information," Friday tells him brusquely, causing Jim to frown. "At least not yet." He turns to me. "I'll direct most of my questions to you then, Officer Malloy, if you were in charge until Sergeant MacDonald arrived on scene."

"That's fine," I say, settling back against the hood of Friday's sedan. He gives me a glare, and when Reed catches sight of it, he casually leans back against the car, too, smirking a bit at Friday's obvious discomfort at having two beat cops with dirty coveralls on lean on his pristine detective's car. "Fire away, Sergeant." I cross my arms over my chest, fixing him with a cool look.

"Prior to getting called out here, you were on routine patrol, correct?" he asks.

"We were," I say. "You can see what our activities were according to our logbook from the squad car."

"Yes," Bill Gannon says, handing the logbook back to Val Moore. "Sergeant MacDonald was kind enough to allow me to copy the entries down."

"Thanks," Val says, tucking it under his arm. "I'll make sure it gets put back in the squad car."

"Approximately what time were you dispatched out here to this call?" Friday asks.

"Around twenty past noon," I say. I don't volunteer any more information, I figure let the bastard dig for what he wants, especially after the way he treated me over the Walters case.

"What kind of call was it?"

"It was an assist other agency call," I tell him. "Dispatch sent us to meet up with LA County Fire's Engine 51, here at Palmtree and Adamson."

"Did the dispatcher say why?"

"Not at first," I say. "Then right after first dispatching us, she came back with further information on the call type."

Friday waits for me to continue, and when I don't, he frowns. "Which was?" he asks.

"According to Engine 51, their paramedic unit was pinned down by sniper fire on Granite Court," I tell him.

"Was it?" he asks.

"Pinned down by sniper fire?" I ask innocently.

"Yes," he says, rolling his eyes a bit.

"Their truck is still sitting out there, pocked with bulletholes and surrounded by debris from the parking ramp," I say, rubbing my chin thoughtfully. "So yeah, I'd say it was." I catch Reed's eye out of the corner of my own, and he smiles a bit, knowing that I'm going to make Sergeant Friday work for this interview.

"How long did it take you to respond out here after being dispatched?" Friday asks.

"Five minutes or so," I say.

"Can you pin that down a little firmer for me?" he asks.

"Well, considering the fact that we were going code three, and I was actually DRIVING the squad car and trying not to get us into a wreck, I really can't say that I looked at my watch and timed us, Sergeant," I reply.

"Pete, don't be flip," Val warns.

"What about you?" Friday asks, looking at Reed.

"Oh, I'm never flip, Sergeant," he replies, deadpan. "I'm pretty serious."

"No, I mean, did you look at your watch?" Friday asks, slightly annoyed.

"Uh…no," Reed says. "On account of the fact that when we're rolling code three to a call, I'm usually keeping an eye out on the traffic so we don't get creamed." He shrugs. "You know, they pretty much teach us that in the Academy."

"Reed, I'm warning you, too, don't be flip," Val says sharply.

"When you arrived on scene, what did you see?" Friday asks.

"Engine 51 staged at the corner of Palmtree and Adamson," I tell him.

"Anything else?"

"We could see the medic unit that was pinned down, the medics huddled near the right rear duals," I tell him. "We could see people lying in the street, not moving."

"Could you see the sniper?" he asks.

"Not from where we were at," I say. "The angle was too low."

"So how did the medics know they had a sniper on their hands?" he asks.

"You'd have to ask them, Sergeant," I tell him. "But I'm pretty sure they'll tell you it was when the windshield of their truck exploded in their faces."

"They kept in contact with their Captain over a walkie-talkie?" he asks.

"Yeah, a handie-talkie," I tell him. "Pretty similar to our CC units."

"Did their Captain advise you of what they had?" he asks.

"Yes, Captain Stanley did," I tell him. "He told me they'd been shot at as they arrived on scene for a medical unknown in Granite Park. They bailed out and took cover."

"Did you hear any shots yourself?"

"Nope, not a one. He was evidently using a silencer for the first part of his slaughter," I say. "The only way the medics knew he was shooting was by hearing the screams of the victims in the park."

"And you couldn't see him, right?"

"No."

"So how did you know where he was at?"

"We didn't, at first," I say. "The medics reported seeing him atop the Granite Court building. When Air Ten got into the area, they confirmed it. The sniper was on the roof of the building."

"What did you do next?" he asks.

"I got on the PA system, told the people in the street and park area to stay where they were at, that help was on the way. Then I got on the radio, asked all the responding cars and dispatch to take their traffic to Tac2," I say.

"Why?" he asks.

"Tac2 was easier to monitor, with all of us being on the same frequency," I say. "We generally go to Tac2 when we don't want everybody that has a police scanner to know what's going on, including the media."

"Did you request a sergeant to this scene?" he asks.

"Sergeant MacDonald was already on his way out here, but I advised him of what we had."

Friday rubs the bridge of his nose. "Did you make any requests of Sergeant MacDonald, as far as what would be needed out here to deal with the situation?"

"I told him we needed the SWAT team mobilized," I say. "I advised him to start ambulances this way, to deal with the wounded. I told him it looked to be a mass fatality incident."

"Anything else?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Nope. All we could do was wait for his arrival."

"Did you take command of the scene until he arrived?" Friday asks.

"Yeah," I say. "I deployed the arriving back-up units to various corners in order to set up roadblocks in the area. I wanted all traffic stopped, not knowing how far a range he had on that rifle. I asked the fire crew to go to the two businesses here and ask them to evacuate the area for their own safety. When one of the county deputies arrived, I had him go over to Shale Court in back of Granite and evacuate the residences over there."

"Did you have any trouble?" he asks.

"The owners of both the car lot and the furniture warehouse were a bit reluctant to leave," I say. "But after I threatened to arrest them for interference, they thought better of it. And the fact that the medic crew reported more shots being fired kinda scared them into scooting out of the area. Sniper situations tend to do that to people, you know," I say, grinning slightly.

"Why didn't county handle any of this?" Friday asks.

"That would be a question you need to put to county," I say. "We were told by Captain Stanley that the county was tied up on a hostage situation of its own, and therefore was unavailable. So we took over as primary incident commanders."

"How did you determine where to set up the roadblocks?" Friday asks.

"Easy," I say. "I wanted Adamson shut down completely, so I placed units at Chicory Drive to the east, and Oaktree Drive to the west. When he blew up the ramp later on, the roadblocks were moved even further back." I gesture to the street we're on. "I wanted an easy access road for the emergency vehicles, so I shut Palmtree off at Morris to funnel them in, and Oaktree off at Morris to funnel 'em out."

"Pretty fast thinking," Friday says, squinting at me.

"You have to think fast out here, Sergeant. Otherwise you'll wind up dead," I say.

"How long did it take for Sergeant MacDonald to arrive on scene and take over command?" he asks.

"Five, maybe seven minutes or so," I say. "Again, we weren't exactly timing things, Sergeant."

"What did you do once he arrived?"

"I filled him in on what I'd done so far, establishing the roadblocks and getting the area cleared out," I say. "I told him that Captain Stanley had gone ahead and requested the contractor for the Granite Court building be en route out here with blueprints for the building, for when we went to take the sniper down. I also told him I thought we'd use this vacant lot to set up a triage area, once we started pulling victims out. I suggested that he have an announcement be put out over the tv and radio stations warning people to stay out of this area."

"And he did all that, just on your suggestion?" Friday asks.

"It's what he would've done himself," I say. "Had he been the first one to respond out here."

"He requested the SWAT team, correct?"

"Yes, he got in contact with the team commander, Sergeant Gus Baron, and made sure he was already aware of the situation out here and on his way," I say.

"You and Officer Reed are SWAT team members, am I right?" he asks.

"We are," I say. "We have been since its inception in 1970."

"Were you asked to be members or did you apply?"

"Sergeant Baron asked both of us, based on our personnel packages and work record," I say.

"How many members are there?"

"Twelve," I tell him. "Including us."

"How often do you train with the team?"

"Once a month. Sometimes twice, depending on the schedule."

"Where do you train?"

"The Academy," I say. "And Camp Pendleton."

"How many SWAT calls do you normally handle in a year?"

"Anywhere from two to twenty," I say. "Sometimes more, sometimes less. Depends."

He frowns. "On what?"

"On how often we are forced to deal with crazy people who want to take others hostage, or hold us at bay with weapons," I tell him.

"Have you ever handled a situation like this before?"

"Similar ones, yes," I tell him. "No two situations are alike, Sergeant. The outcome depends on the suspect's willingness to cooperate with us."

"Have you ever been forced to shoot a suspect, or otherwise use force in order to bring an end to the situation?"

"Yes," I say.

"Both of you?" he asks, glancing at Reed.

Jim nods. "Yes."

"Have either of you been forced to kill a suspect in order to bring a peaceful end?" he asks.

"Sergeant Friday, the information regarding the SWAT team activities of these two officers is classified, in regards to their use of deadly force in any SWAT incident," Val says. "I'm sure you know that. It's out of regard for their safety."

"I need to know if they've ever been forced to shoot and kill someone while handling a SWAT incident," Friday says in slight protest. "For backround purposes."

"You can obtain that information at the station, Sergeant," Val tells him. "With the approval of both myself and Sergeant Baron, of course."

"I intend to," Friday says, giving Val a small glare. He leans against the bumper of the logistics truck. "Tell me about the Armadillo," he says.

I shrug. "It's an armored Brink's truck, reinforced with steel plating in both the cab and the body of the rig. It's got protective plates over the wheels to prevent them from being shot out. It's got bulletproof glass in all the windows of the cab. The interior is stripped down with just two benches on either side, and a small portal window that allows the SWAT team members to communicate with the driver. The rig was purchased and retrofitted to departmental specifications in March of this year. It was part of an overall upgrade package for the SWAT team, since we also were outfitted with new bulletproof vests, military harnesses, and surplus Army helmets. If you want any futher information, you'll have to talk to Sergeant Baron, he's the head of our SWAT team."

"Was it purchased for use in events like this?" Friday asks.

"It was purchased for use in any event that might require the SWAT team," I tell him. "A hostage situation, a bank robbery, a sniper incident…anything that would require the mobilization of the SWAT team."

"Do you use it in every situation?" he asks.

"No, this was actually the first time the Armadillo has ever been used in any kind of situation," I say. "Other than trial runs at the Academy and Camp Pendleton."

"So while you've trained with it, you've never actually had the chance to use it, correct?" Friday asks.

"Right," I say. "Today's situation was the first time it's been out in the field."

"So you had no idea of how it would perform in a real situation, right?"

"If it performed as well as it did in test runs, I expected it to work just fine out here," I say.

"You both have trained with it?" he asks.

I nod. "Yes, we have."

"Same amount of hours, same kind of testing and training overall?"

"Yes," I say, getting a bit irritated. "It, along with the SWAT team, has always performed well with any type of incident thrown at us, whether it was a test run or an actual event."

"Had Sergeant MacDonald ever seen the rig in action?" he asks.

"He saw it in a demonstration we put on for the upper brass over the summer, in order to show them how it worked," I say. "Like I said, today was the first time it was ever out in the field, Sergeant."

"He was reluctant to bring it out, was he not?" Friday asks.

"He wasn't sure it would run well, no," I say. "I think he felt it hadn't proved itself in the field just yet, and that made him hesitant to request it out here."

"But you didn't have any trouble asking Sergeant Baron to bring the rig out, did you?" Friday asks.

I frown. "I'm not sure what you're getting at, Sergeant."

"After Sergeant MacDonald arrived on scene, you filled him in on the situation out here and what steps you'd taken as far as shutting down traffic, correct?" he asks.

"Right," I say.

"So at that point, the command of this incident effectively passed from you to your superior officer, Sergeant MacDonald, right?" he asks, a slight glimmer in his eye. "You were no longer in command of the situation, it had been given over to him, correct?"

"Yeah," I say. "It had."

"And Sergeant MacDonald got on the radio, Tac2 to be exact, and began issuing requests and orders of both dispatch and the other officers assisting out here, right?"

I hesitate, and I see Reed give me a wary glance out of the corner of his eye. I know exactly where he's going with this, I think to myself. Shit! "Yes, Sergeant MacDonald took full command of the incident out here, a command that I willingly turned over to him, as he is my superior officer," I say, rubbing my forehead.

"And while Sergeant MacDonald was issuing orders over the radio, he maintained contact with Sergeant Baron, head of the SWAT team, right?" Friday asks.

"He informed Sergeant Baron of the situation out here, yes," I say.

"He did not ask for the Armadillo to be brought out here, did he? All he wanted was the SWAT gear, right?" he asks.

"No, he didn't ask for the Armadillo, just the gear," I say.

"Did you tell him the rig was available for use? That it could be of great help out here, despite the fact that it hadn't been proven in-field yet?"

"I suggested it to him, yes," I say. "I told him it deserved the chance to run, and maybe save lives out in the field. I felt it would be very beneficial out here."

"Sooo…" Friday says, a reflective look in his eye as he taps his chin with an index finger. "Then pray tell me WHY, after hearing Sergeant MacDonald request only the SWAT team gear out here, I heard YOU get on the radio and ask Sergeant Baron to bring the armored rig out here, despite your superior officer's previous orders?" He jabs at me with that index finger. "And keep in mind, before you answer that, Officer Malloy, I was listening in on the radio traffic on Tac2 regarding this incident back at the Parker Center. I distinctly heard two different voices, that of Sergeant MacDonald issuing the first request for the gear only, and then yours, fairly demanding the Armadillo be brought out here by Sergeant Baron." He gives me a malicious grin.

"I didn't demand that the Armadillo be brought out here," I say heatedly. "I only knew what was happening out here, that we had a sniper on a rooftop shooting at innocent people in a park below, and that the best chance for those people escaping with their lives was with the help of that armored rig."

"But you basically overruled your commanding officer, going over his head to issue a request that was not your privilege to do," Friday says.

"Is that true, Pete, that you went over Mac's head and asked for the rig out here?" Val asks, looking at me with a frown.

"Look," I say. "Mac didn't want the rig brought out here, he felt that if it failed, it would look bad for the department. I knew that the rig performed well in trial runs, and if we didn't test it now in a field opportunity, we might never know how it would work in a real-life situation. Time was critical here, those people had been pinned down in the park since noon, and were understandably getting scared they weren't going to be rescued. Many of those in the park were small children. It was important that we use whatever resources we had on hand in order to save as many lives as we could out there. I felt that the rig needed to be brought out here to do what it was supposed to do: help us in our SWAT team function. That's why I got on the radio and asked Sergeant Baron to bring the Armadillo out here. It wasn't a power-play or anything like that on my part, it was just concern for the folks stuck out there, that's all. Any hesitancy on Sergeant MacDonald's part might have cost lives." I spread my hands out, palms up. "And had Sergeant Baron arrived out here without the rig, and it was later decided to use it, we would have wasted valuable time waiting for someone to drive it in from the station, valuable time we didn't have."

"Did Sergeant Baron agree with you, that the rig was necessary?" Friday asks.

"He was a bit hestitant at first, too, but he decided to give it a chance," I say.

"Did you happen to be witness to all this, Officer Reed?" Friday asks, turning to Jim.

Jim shifts uncomfortably, biting his lip. "Yes, I was," he says softly, as he realizes whatever he tells Sergeant Friday is going to reflect badly on me.

"And is what Officer Malloy telling me true, that's exactly how it all went down?" Friday asks. "There was some disagreement between him and Sergeant MacDonald, and he went over Sergeant MacDonald's head in order to request the Armadillo?"

"Yes," Jim says, bowing his head.

"How exactly did Officer Malloy gain control of the radio?" he asks. "Did he grab the radio mike out of Sergeant MacDonald's hands?"

Jim stares at his boots. He rubs the side of his nose nervously. "Yes," he says, his voice nearly a whisper. He looks up at me, shooting me a look of sad-eyed apology.

I shake my head, looking away. I don't want to meet his eyes right now, I know he'll see the anger in them. I realize Reed was forced to tell the truth, and I wouldn't want him to lie on my behalf, but the old saying is true: the truth hurts. Stings, actually.

"Is that true, Officer Malloy?" Friday asks. "You grabbed the mike away from your commanding officer?"

"Yes," I mutter. "But it's not something I've ever done before, believe me."

"Was Sergeant MacDonald upset with your actions?" he asks.

"Yes," I say. "He was. He told me we'd discuss it later."

Val clears his throat. "While it's disappointing to hear, Sergeant Friday, I'm sure that Officer Malloy had only the best of intentions when he acted the way he did. And I can assure you, that the matter will be brought up in an in-house disciplinary meeting."

Friday looks at Val, a slight sneer of contempt on his face. "Captain, it appears to me that there seems to be a lack of regard for one's superior officers in your division, not to mention disciplinary issues other than this. I suggest you handle it pronto, before it gets too far out of hand."

Val eyes him coldly. "Duly noted, Sergeant," he clips out. "Now might I suggest you drop this matter and continue with the interview? This has already been a long day for these two men, and it's looking like it's going to be a long night, too. I'd appreciate it, and I'm sure they would too, if you'd get on with it. We still have the walk-through to get done, Sergeant."

"Fine," Friday says, turning back to me. "After overriding your Sergeant, what did you do next?"

"There wasn't much we could do," I tell him. "Other than wait for the rig to be brought out here, with our gear aboard. Sergeant MacDonald continued to issue orders regarding setting up the triage area, getting ambulances and medevac choppers in here, along with additional rescue squads, and activating the triage teams from Rampart and Central Receiving. By that time, Air Ten had arrived on scene to give us air support, and they flew over the park and the sniper's nest to give us a status report. According to them, they could see a lot of what appeared to be a lot of injuries and fatalities in the park and on the street below, and they reported also seeing a preschool bus parked in the lot, indicating there were likely children present in the park. And they confirmed what the medics had seen, the sniper was holed up on the roof of the Granite Court building."

"Was Sergeant MacDonald the one who gave orders to issue a statement to the media, warning people to stay out of this area?" Friday asks.

"He was," I say. "In addition, he had the firefighters prepping the vacant lot for triage, and he also had one of them draw us up a map of the park, so we'd know the basic layout once we got in there."

"Were either of you nervous about going into such a dangerous situation?" he asks.

I shake my head. "No, my main concern was for the people who were in danger from the sniper, not my own personal welfare."

"What about you, Officer Reed?" Friday asks.

Reed ducks his head. "I was a little bit," he says, sounding slightly embarassed. "I didn't like the idea of having to face the possibilty of running across murdered children in that park."

"Did you voice your misgivings to your partner or Sergeant MacDonald?"

"I told Pete," Reed says. "Not Sergeant MacDonald, though."

"Why not?" Friday asks, cocking his head. "It was a volunteer position, am I not right?"

"Right," Reed says.

"It wasn't an order issued to you by either Sergeant MacDonald or Sergeant Baron, or even Officer Malloy, that you go into that situation, right?"

"Right," Reed tells him. "In fact, Pete offered to have Deputy Vince Howard from the sheriff's department suit up and ride in instead, since he was a member of the county SWAT team."

"But you turned him down?"

Reed nods. "I did."

"Why? I mean, it's certainly understandable, Officer Reed, if you didn't want to go into a situation and face possible injury or death, especially since you have a wife and child at home, along with another baby on the way," Friday remarks. "And if Officer Malloy offered you an alternative, you would not have been wrong in taking it."

Reed's head snaps up, his eyes flashing. "I had a job to do, a duty, Sergeant. Misgivings or not, someone needed to help those people out in there, and Pete couldn't do it alone. I felt I was the best man for the job, so I pushed aside my feelings and did it."

"Do you often have moments of crisis on your conscience?" Friday asks.

"No," Reed snaps. "Not at all, Sergeant. No matter what my personal feelings are towards different things, I'm a sworn police officer, and my duty is to uphold and enforce the law for ALL citizens, regardless of my opinions. Any police officer who lets his personal feelings or opinions color his actions is a very poor police officer indeed."

Friday looks at me. "What about you, Officer Malloy? Any misgivings as far as this case?"

Only about you being the one to interview us, I think to myself. "No," I tell him. "None whatsoever. Our first priority was the safety of the people in the park, and getting them out of there. That's all."

"How long did it take for the Armadillo to arrive out here?" he asks.

"About ten minutes," I say. "And no, before you ask, we weren't timing it, either."

"Did you two begin suiting up immediately upon its arrival?" he asks.

"Yes, we did," I tell him. "Sergeant Baron had placed our gear in the back of the rig when he left the station. While we were gearing up, we filled him in on the situation. With the map of the park one of the firefighters had drawn, we began to discuss our options as far as our rescue operations."

"Did Sergeant Baron call in any further SWAT team members at any time?" he asks.

"He didn't, not until near the end, when we were trying to figure out how to best get the sniper after our first plan was foiled," I say.

"Why didn't he call in other members? Surely he couldn't have expected you two to do the work alone," he says.

"I don't know what Sergeant Baron's reasoning was behind that," I tell him. "You'd have to ask him yourself, Sergeant."

"I think he was concerned that we'd get too many men out here and there wouldn't be anything for them to do," Reed says. "Really only two to three men can fit aboard the Armadillo during runs."

"What kind of plan did you devise in order to perform rescue operations?" he asks, completely ignoring Reed, who huffs a sigh and folds his arms across his chest, fixing Sergeant Friday with a blue-eyed glare.

"We knew the only feasible way into the park was through the main entrance; the back entrance was too narrow to permit the armored rig to drive through," I tell him. "The first thing we needed to do was to get the two medics out of there, in order to bring them back to the triage area, where they would assist the doctors and nurses from the area hospitals. Once we got them pulled out, we would concentrate on rescuing the other victims pinned in, loading them aboard the rig as we found them."

"How long did it take for you two to suit up and begin rescue operations?" he asks.

"About ten, fifteen minutes or so," I tell him.

"Was there any mention of one of you laying down cover fire?" Friday asks.

"I was the one elected to do that," I tell him. "While Officer Reed would be the one to get the survivors on board."

"Why were you elected to do that?" he asks. "Why not Officer Reed?"

"I'm a Distinguished Expert as far as marksmanship is concerned," I tell him. "Sergeant Baron felt it would be best if I was the one to fire at the sniper if needed."

"And did you?"

"Fire at him?" I ask. "Yes, I did, but none of my shots hit him."

"That's pretty bad for a Distinguished Expert," Friday smirks.

"Not really," I tell him sharply. "When you consider that I was firing from four stories below where he was hiding at, and he had a ledge to duck behind when I shot at him. I might not have hit him, no, but I sure as hell kept his head down."

"You two used the departmental issued M16's, correct?"

I nod. "Yes, we both left our service revolvers back here at the command post. They wouldn't have done us any good out in the field."

"Were you two given any orders regarding removal of the dead out there?" he asks.

"We were told to leave them where they were at," I say. "Our concern at that point was not the dead, but the living."

"Did Sergeant Baron give you any orders regarding the ones obviously near death?" he asks.

"He told us to leave those that were so close to death where they were at, they likely wouldn't survive the trip back to triage," I tell him. "It goes against our beliefs, but we had to obey his command."

"Did you run into that kind of situation out in the field, where you found a grievously injured person and picked them up anyway, in hopes of saving them?"

"Only once," I say. "And we picked him up anyway and brought him into triage."

"So you obviously didn't obey Sergeant Baron's orders, either, did you?" he asks snarkily.

"It's not in our nature to leave someone behind that needs our help," Reed tells him. "Despite the orders."

"Did he live long enough to make it back to triage?" Friday asks.

"No, he died in the back of the rig," I say. "And trust me, we got chewed out by one of the triage doctors, too, for bringing a dead guy out of there."

"Getting back to the beginning of the rescue operations, did you go ahead and pull the two paramedics out first?" he asks.

"We did," I say. "We helped them load some much-needed equipment off of their damaged squad so they could use it in the triage area. After we got them aboard, Sergeant Baron spotted several victims in the street, pulling up alongside of them. We got out and determined that they were deceased. The only two civilians we pulled out of there alive were a mother and her child who were huddled by a car in the parking lot. They were uninjured, but extremely frightened. With the medics, their equipment, and the two civilians aboard, we couldn't fit anyone else, so Sergeant Baron turned the Armadillo around and headed back to the triage area."

"Then what?" he asks.

"We unloaded the medics and their gear at triage, along with the woman and her child, and returned to the command post. Sergeant Baron wanted to give Sergeant MacDonald an update on what kind of fatalities we'd already seen in just the street alone."

"How many were there?" he asks.

I shake my head. "I honestly can't say, Sergeant. We didn't stop to count them, we just checked for signs of life, leaving them if we found none. Many of the ones we ran across, not only in the street, but in the park also, were quite obviously dead."

Sergeant Friday looks at Val. "Captain, do you have a final count on the number of fatalities in the park?"

"We don't, Sergeant," Val tells him. "Our homicide teams are just now getting in there and processing the scene. We probably won't have a final count until tomorrow. I'm sure you can understand, it's such a large scene to process right now."

Friday turns back to me. "You returned to the command post to update Sergeant MacDonald on the fatalities you'd seen in the street. Did you ride back into the sniper's zone after giving the Sergeant that information?"

"Well…not exactly," I say, shifting nervously on my feet. "One of the medics, John Gage, had an idea that he wanted to run past his captain and Sergeant MacDonald."

"Which was what?" he asks.

"He wanted to outfit himself in a bulletproof vest and helmet, and ride into the zone with us, in order to assist us in pulling the people out of the park," I say. "They both refused, of course, citing liability and injury issues."

"Did he accept their decision?" he asks.

I exchange an uneasy look with Reed. "No, he didn't," I say, after hesitating a bit. "He chased after the Armadillo once it was in motion, headed back into the zone. He managed to climb aboard."

Friday stares at me for a moment. "What did you do? Inform Sergeant Baron that he'd stowed away aboard the rig and the rig needed to return to base?"

"Eh…no," I say. "We informed Sergeant Baron that Gage had gotten aboard, but he decided not to turn the rig around. We went on into the field, in order to continue rescues."

"Gage did have on a bulletproof vest and helmet," Reed says. "And we had every intention of returning him to the triage area once we were out of the zone. We quickly informed Gage that he was to remain inside the rig at all times, until we returned to base."

"Did he obey?" Friday asks.

"At first he agreed to," I say. "But then as we came across an injured lady that Officer Reed couldn't get into the back of the rig, Gage hopped out to help. I couldn't assist Reed, I was trying to keep the sniper's head down with cover fire. After we got her and her daughter aboard, we came across a couple of teenage girls near their car. We got one aboard, but the other one went back for her purse, and the sniper shot her dead. Gage jumped out of the back of the rig in order to try and save her. We ordered him back aboard, since she was obviously gone. He was reluctant at first, thinking he could save her, but I pointed out she was dead and beyond help. He then got back aboard."

"When you returned to the triage area, did you remove him from aboard the rig?"

"No, we decided to take him to the command post and let Captain Stanley and Sergeant MacDonald deal with him," I say.

"Did they order him placed under arrest, anything like that?" Friday asks.

"No," I say. "Gage pointed out to them that he'd been of great help aboard the rig, in terms of gettting the victims loaded up faster. He managed to convince them that he'd be valuable aboard the Armadillo, since I couldn't help Jim pull the victims aboard. Two sets of hands worked faster than one," I tell him. "And despite our misgivings about having an untrained man on the rig, he did prove his worth in the field not once, but several times."

"So let me get this straight, Officer Malloy. Instead of off-loading him and placing him under arrest, you guys made the decision to keep an unauthorized person aboard a police department vehicle, to aid and assist you in an official police department capacity, despite the fact that it went against every ounce of protocol?" Friday asks, incredulous.

"To be fair, Sergeant, John Gage was a trained paramedic," Reed points out. "And I know he'd been in similar situations before, where he'd assisted the county in their SWAT incidents. If none of us had the confidence that he could perform capably in the field, we wouldn't have hesitated to take the steps necessary to keep him off of the rig."

"That doesn't matter," Friday snaps, glaring at Reed. "John Gage is NOT a sworn police officer, but the two of you are, along with Sergeant MacDonald! He should not have been allowed aboard that rig while it was performing rescue operations! I don't care whether he had a bulletproof vest and helmet, and he performed wondrous miracles in the field, he was unqualified to be aboard that rig, and that's final!" His voice rises in anger. "The three of you, and his fire captain, should have known better! His presence on that rig is a direct violation of departmental protocol!"

Val takes a step forward, towards Friday. "Look, Sergeant. While I'm sure you can quote the little blue book by heart without even looking at it, this situation out here was highly unusual in the fact that it's never been faced by our department before. All three officers realize that by allowing John Gage to remain aboard the Armadillo during rescue operations was very wrong, they've agreed to discuss the matter in a closed-door disciplinary hearing within our division."

"Were you aware that this happened out here?" Friday asks Val.

"I was made aware of it after the fact, yes," Val says. "And I fully intend to deal with it in-house, Sergeant. But like I said, this situation was something none of us have ever had to face before, and desperate times call for desperate measures. John Gage was willing to risk his own personal safety in order to facilitate smoother rescue operations in the field, and I find that quite commendable, to be honest, Sergeant."

"Yes, it was against protocol," I say. "But John Gage did a helluva lot of good out there today. Both Officer Reed and I were glad to have him helping us out. If he hadn't, the operations would've gone a lot slower, and it's likely that more people would've died because of the longer amount of time it would've taken for us to get them out of there. Between the three of us, we got in there, got the people out as fast as we could, and got the job done. That's what matters most in the long run, Sergeant. Not who was supposed to be or not supposed to be on board the rig, but how well and how quickly we got the job done. You can't stack protocol against the value of human lives."

"I intend to take this matter to Police Chief Davis and County Fire Chief Houts," Sergeant Friday says. "I'm quite sure they'd be interested in what went down out here."

"That's entirely up to you, Sergeant," Val says coolly. "I'm sure that the acts of bravery shown by those three men out in the field today will far outweigh any matters of protocol that were broken." He nods at Sergeant Friday. "And now, if you will please, let's get on with the interview."

Friday turns back to me. "Alright, Officer Malloy. After returning to the command post and hatching the harebrained scheme to leave a paramedic aboard the rig, I presume you three returned to the battlezone once more?"

"Well, Sergeant Baron had noticed a pickup truck parked on the street near the Granite Court building," I say. "He got the license plate number on our way out with the wounded, and gave it to Sergeant MacDonald, in hopes of it possibly leading to the sniper's identity. We were also informed by some of the officers at the roadblock on Oaktree and Adamson that the news media was trying to get footage of the Armadillo as it came out of the zone. The decision was made at that time to pull Engine 51 across the street, in an attempt to block the media's view. We had also noticed that the sniper had evidently removed the silencer from his rifle, as we could now hear the shots as he fired them."

"Once the fire truck was in place, you resumed rescue operations at that time?" Friday asks.

"Yes, we did. We headed for the park next, where we expected to encounter the most injuries and fatalities," I tell him.

"Did you set down guidelines for John Gage to follow, in regards to his safety?" he asks.

"We did," I say. "Not only for his safety, but ours, too. And for the most part, he followed them."

"Tell me about the first trip into the park," he says. "What you found once you got in there."

"The decision was made to load up as many people as we could squeeze aboard the rig," I say. "The first batch of victims that we ran across were the kids from a preschool and their teachers. As Gage and Reed loaded up victims, I maintained cover fire, until the rifle jammed, rendering it useless. At that point, I could see that Gage and Reed needed an extra set of hands, so I helped load the children into the back of the rig."

"How badly injured were these kids?" he asks.

"They were…" I begin, but my voice grows husky with a sudden flood of emotions. Damn it, I thought I'd had my emotions firmly in check, but anger, sorrow, and guilt wash over me in a tidal wave that comes out of nowhere. I bite my lip and look away, remembering the sight of the little boy in a sailor suit, a bullet wound in his leg; another little boy with a massive wound to his stomach, the tiny girl with her back literally in shreds. I swallow hard, thinking of the little girl in Reed's arms, the one whose head was blown off by one shot from Charlie Burnside, and how Reed didn't want to leave her body to just lie there in the park. I close my eyes for a moment, recalling nearly bodily tossing my partner into the back of the rig after I pried the dead child out of his arms that were unwilling to let her go. "They were pretty critical, Sergeant. One of their teachers had been killed, the other one shot in the arm. The third one was in severe shock. It's not something I'd ever want to see again, I'll tell you that." I open my eyes again, staring at my muck covered boots, so that no one will see the emotions in my eyes.

"One of them died in my arms," Reed says softly, his own emotions unchecked. "As I was getting ready to load her into the back of the rig, the sniper got her in his sights and blew her head off." He points to the crust of dried blood and brains on his black coveralls. "I'm wearing her brains on my coveralls, Sergeant, along with her blood. She was only about four or five years old, nearly the same age as my own son." He looks up at Friday, a glimmer of pain and anguish in his eyes. "It's not an easy thing to take, Sergeant, having a child murdered in your arms like that. An innocent child, one whose only crime was to want to go to the park and have a picnic with her preschool class."

Friday falls silent, staring between the two of us. His expression softens slightly, and to my surprise, I see a small glint of sympathy in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he says. "That must have been very difficult for the two of you to experience out there." And just as quickly as the small edge of sympathy appeared, it's gone again, replaced by his regular, no-nonsense attitude.

"Yeah, it was," Reed says. "But the pain will come later, after this is all over with. It always does." His voice holds a sharp trace of bitterness.

"Were you able to get all of the children from the preschool aboard the rig?" Bill Gannon asks, speaking for the first time since the interview began.

I nod. "Yeah, we were. Sergeant Baron was able to take a few of them in the front seat with him. Once we got them loaded up, we returned to triage."

"That was the trip from hell," Reed says. "Riding in the back of that stinking and hot Armadillo with a bunch of frightened and seriously injured preschoolers." He locks his gaze onto Friday's, his blues eyes staring coldly into Friday's dark ones, anger flashing a bit. "I've never seen kids so scared that they've got that thousand-yard stare on their little faces, and all they can do is whimper, like little puppies. Tell me how you can explain to them what happened in that park, Sergeant, because I can't explain it to myself."

Sergeant Friday shrugs, shaking his head. "I'm not sure I can, Officer Reed. I can't explain it at all, other than what happened today was the work of an evil madman." He hesitates. "Do you two wish to stop the interview and take a small break?" he asks.

"No," Reed sighs. "Let's get it over with."

"Are you sure?" he asks, looking at me.

"I'm with Reed, let's get it done," I say.

"Alright then, you returned to the triage area and unloaded the injured children and their teachers. You went back into the zone again?" he asks.

"We stopped long enough to kind of clean out the back of the rig," I said. "There was blood and other matter on the floor, and it would've made it slippery. I also had to replace the empty clip in my rifle with a new one." I glance over at Jim, who's studying the ground, and I debate whether or not to tell Sergeant Friday that Jim once more had misgivings about returning to the field. I decide not to, feeling that it's not something the sergeant should know. It's not up to me to expose Jim's thoughts to the air. "After we did that, we returned to the field, entering the park once more."

"John Gage was still on board, I presume?" Friday asks.

"Yes," I say. "He remained on board until the rescue operations were complete."

"What about the next set of victims you rescued?" Friday asks.

"We had some teenagers by the stone wall in the park that we loaded up. One was dead, so we left her where she was at. Another one was only in shock, not injured. The third kid had a pretty serious gunshot wound to both the leg and the shoulder. Once we got them aboard, Sergeant Baron turned the rig towards some other victims he'd spotted, but they were deceased. The next batch of victims we came across were businessmen who'd been huddled behind an overturned picnic table. Neither were wounded, but one of the men kept threatening us with a lawsuit for not getting in there right away and pulling people out. As we were helping him aboard, the sniper fired at him, winging him in the shoulder. The last set of victims we picked up were a couple of college-age kids. One wasn't hurt, but his friend was seriously injured with an abdominal wound." I swallow, the flash memory of the kid's intestines showing through the gaping hole in his gut dancing in front of my eyes. Suddenly the coffee and doughnut I had earlier turns to lead inside my own stomach. Taking a deep breath, I continue. "It was obvious the kid was near death, I doubted he would've lasted the ride in the Armadillo to triage. But Gage felt a pulse on him, and we went ahead and loaded him up into the back of the rig. Unfortunately, he didn't make it. He died before we even got out of the zone."

"You returned to triage then, after getting those folks aboard?" Friday asks.

"Yeah, we did. We got chewed out by one of the triage doctors, too, for bringing in a dead kid, but it couldn't be helped," I say. "It's not in our natures, nor that of the paramedics, to leave a breathing victim to die out there, despite our orders to the contrary." I rub my forehead tiredly, wishing the interview would go faster. Next to me, Jim Reed fidgets uncomfortably, and I honestly wish we had chairs to set on right now. It seems like all we've been doing today is either run or stand, one of the two. "We unloaded the injured and the deceased kid and returned to the zone once more."

"Was the sniper shooting at you the whole time you were performing rescue operations?" Friday asks.

"Not constantly, no," I say. "It wasn't an endless barrage of bullets. I think he fired when he felt he had a viable target, or he wanted to remind us he was still there."

"Did you maintain cover fire each time you got out of the rig?" he asks.

"No, it became quickly apparent that it was pretty futile. At that range, I couldn't hit him, and I was needed to assist in loading the victims up into the Armadillo. So I quit shooting at him, leaving my weapon in the back of the rig."

"Did you make that decision yourself, or did Sergeant Baron make it for you?" Friday asks.

"It was made by Sergeant Baron," I tell him, my voice a bit sharp. "He could see it was useless to fire at the sniper, and he knew that time was of the essence in getting those people out of there. He was the one who told me to quit laying down the cover fire and help out with the victims, which I already had started doing before he gave me that order."

"Alright," Friday says, his voice sounding a bit weary. Evidently he's getting as tired of the interview process as we are. "Tell me about this trip into the zone."

"We checked the picnic pavilion for any survivors. One of the victims was the park groundskeeper, but he was dead. I ran across a young mother and her little boy. Both were still alive, but she was unable to walk due to a hip injury. I called Gage over and he helped me in getting her and her son aboard the rig. Officer Reed found another young woman with a leg injury, and we loaded her aboard. The rest of the pavilion was clear, so we moved on to the fountain, where Sergeant Baron had spotted more victims. Three of them were teenagers, two boys and a girl, but only the girl was still alive, with facial trauma. Gage spotted another pair of college kids nearby, a boy and a girl. The boy was dead, but the girl was still alive. We got her and the teenager loaded up. The last spot we headed to was the playground equipment." I stop, biting my lip once more as the same flood of emotions washes over me once more; anger, sorrow, and guilt. My voice becomes soft with unshed feelings. C'mon, Pete, you're a big tough cop, and big tough cops don't show emotions, I tell myself, but it does no good. "We decided to check for any survivors there, since we were going to be running out of daylight and we didn't want to be performing rescues after dark. Sergeant Baron warned me that we couldn't take too many more aboard, but I knew we'd manage somehow. We were close enough to the equipment to go over there on foot, with Sergeant Baron following behind in the Armadillo. We split up in order to search the area faster. The first set of victims I came across, a mother and her son, were dead. Officer Reed discovered a mother and her child still alive near the swings, and he was able to load them up. Gage found a mother and her two children by the slide, but they were dead, too. Gage swore that the little girl was still alive, but she wasn't. Her injuries were too devastating. I tried to pull him away from the lifesaving measures he was performing on her, and he got mad, taking a swing at me. He tried to return to the little girl once more, but Officer Reed stepped in."

"I was forced to slap him," Reed says. "In order to bring him to his senses. He was defiant at first, but we got him back to the rig."

"You know, assault charges can be filed against both you and John Gage, Officer Reed," Friday says. "On you, for slapping John Gage, and on him, for hitting Officer Malloy."

Reed shakes his head. "That thought has never entered my mind, and I doubt it has Gage's either. We both were running pretty high on adrenaline at that time, and I'm sure that's what set us off."

"What then, Officer Malloy?" Friday asks.

"Sergeant Baron spotted three more victims, and we drove across the park in order to reach them," I say. "It was a mother, her toddler son, and infant daughter. She wasn't hurt, but her kids were. We got her aboard the Armadillo, but it was apparent that the two little ones were deceased, and had been for awhile. We left them where they were at. She wasn't happy with us leaving her kids there, and she…" I stop suddenly, as the mother's anguished and angry face swims before my eyes. I rub my temples, trying to soothe the pounding headache that's sprung up behind my eyes. The doughnut and coffee roils sourly in my stomach.

"She did what, Officer Malloy?" Friday asks.

Jim puts a hand on my shoulder. "Pete, you okay?" he asks softly, concern in his voice.

I nod. "'M okay," I mutter. But I cannot find my voice to finish telling the story, the unmitigated horror of what happened next with the distraught young mother playing out in slow motion in my mind. "I…" I begin, but my voice falters, cracking into a whisper. "I…" All I can hear is the crack of the rifle shot that ended her life so abruptly, slamming through her heart, her body falling back into my arms, the bullet piercing my vest with a stinging sharpness. And I can see her body falling away to the green grass below, as I dropped to the ground myself and puked my guts out, while wondering if I'd been hit and was going to die in that bloody park like a dog.

"The mother was understandably distraught," Reed says to Friday, picking up the narrative, his hand still on my shoulder. "She was hysterical with the fear that we were leaving her kids behind, evidently not realizing they were already dead. She managed to get out of the back of the rig before it left the park, and Pete went after her. He caught her, the two of them struggled, and that's when the sniper shot at her, killing her. The bullet went through her and into Pete's vest." He gives my shoulder a small comforting squeeze, then drops his hand away. "I was afraid the bullet had pierced the vest and wounded Pete, since he dropped to the ground on his knees. I hollered out to Gage and Sergeant Baron that Pete had been hit, and Gage came to my aid, helping me get Pete back on his feet. Sergeant Baron swung the rig around to meet us, and we got him loaded into the back of the Armadillo. After we got to triage, we found out that the bullet had only lodged in the vest and not gone all the way through. Which is a good thing, because if it had, Pete would've been killed instantly, shot through the heart."

"Is that correct, Officer Malloy?" Friday asks.

Wordlessly, I nod, remembering the fear that I had that I was never going to be able to breathe again, the impact of the bullet hitting the vest knocking the wind out of me.

"Were you checked out at the triage area by a doctor or one of the paramedics?" he asks.

"I was," I say, my voice still a bit hoarse. "Other than a bruise over my heart, I'm fine. I changed out of the damaged vest into another one." Reflexively, my hand strays to the spot over my heart and my fingers touch the rough coverall cloth, as if to assure myself that I am, indeed, still alive.

"And you returned to the park to continue operations?" he asks.

"No, that was our final run," I say. "The ones left in the park were deceased, and Sergeant Baron was sure there was no one left alive in there, so we returned to the command post, after dropping John Gage off at triage."

"So you made a total of five trips in all, performing rescue operations?" he asks.

"Yeah," I nod. "After we cleared from triage, we returned to the command post and began to discuss our options for getting the sniper down. He'd been identified by that time, as a former Los Angeles police officer from our division, named Charlie Burnside."

"Officer Burnside was let go from the police department concerning allegations of use of excessive force," Val says. "The allegations were found to be true, after Officer Reed and Officer Al Porter came forward with statements over what they'd witnessed Burnside doing to suspects already in custody."

"Yes, I remember that," Friday says. "Burnside nearly beat a man to death, didn't he?"

Val nods. "The man survived and ended up testifying against Burnside, despite Burnside's efforts to keep the man quiet."

"Were you aware that the sniper was Charlie Burnside?" Friday asks me.

"No," I say, shaking my head. "We didn't know who he was until we returned to the command post to begin hashing out a plan to get him down. "Sergeant MacDonald had dispatch run the license plate on the truck that Sergeant Baron had spotted parked near the Granite Court building. The plate came back to a rental vehicle, and the man who rented it was Charles Burnside. But we weren't aware of who he was until our return to the command post that final time."

"And just for your information, Sergeant Friday, after Burnside was identified as the shooter, we had the homes of both his ex-wife and his parents checked out, to see if they were okay. Unfortunately, prior to the incident out here, Burnside shot and killed his ex-wife and her new husband, along with his two kids. He also murdered both of his parents, all evidently the night before," Val tells him. "And after we were informed that he'd stolen dynamite and blasting caps from his workplace, we had the bomb squads check out both of those residences, along with his own apartment, for any booby traps he might have left behind. They were cleared and checked out okay."

"I also understand you had the bomb squads checking out the residences of both Officer Malloy and his girlfriend, Officer Reed, and Sergeant MacDonald, to make sure Burnside hadn't planted any traps there, either," Friday says.

Val nods. "Yes, that's correct. And those residences checked out okay, too."

Friday turns back to me. "Tell me about the plan to get Burnside down."

"We had the contractor for the Granite Court building on site by that time, with the blueprints for the building. We ran through a couple of scenarios, finally settling on one that had us taking the Armadillo onto the parking ramp next door to the building. While Sergeant Baron dropped us off at a side entrance that was protected from his fire by the overhead decks, he'd drive the rig to the top of the ramp and wait for our signal that we were in the building. After we signalled him, he'd throw diversionary firecrackers and smoke bombs onto the roof of the Granite Court building, while Reed and I stormed the roof stairwell, hoping to take Burnside down before he had a chance to fire at us. It wasn't the greatest of plans, but logistically speaking, it was the best one we could come up with, that didn't put us in danger of being shot by him," I tell Friday.

"And you were made aware that this was a shoot-to-kill order, that if either of you had the kill shot, you were to take it?" Friday asks.

"Yes, Sergeant MacDonald told us it was ordered by Chief Davis himself," I say. "And it would've been highly unlikely that we would've gotten the chance to take him alive, anyway. He had the fire escape door to the roof propped open, and according to the blueprints provided by the contractor, there was not much area that would've given us adequate cover to shield ourselves from his fire."

"So then what happened?" Friday asks.

"We picked up our rifles and our service revolvers, tucking the revolvers into our military harnesses," I say. "We made sure we had enough ammo clips for the rifles and bullets for our revolvers, along with a few diversionary firecrackers and smoke bombs that Sergeant Baron gave us in case we needed them. I swapped out my damaged vest for another one, and we got back into the rig, ready to roll again."

"Who was to be the primary shooter?" Friday asks.

"I was," I say. "Reed was secondary."

"Why?" Friday asks. "Because you're the Distinguished Expert?"

"That, and Sergeant MacDonald didn't wish to place Officer Reed in harm's way if he could help it. Officer Reed has a family, and I don't, making me a bit more expendable than him," I say.

"Which were you planning on using, the revolvers or the rifles?" he asks.

"The revolvers, if we could, due to the close range we'd be working in," I tell him. "But if it came down to using the rifles, we were prepared to do that, too."

"What was the plan you were going to use?" Friday asks. "Tell me one more time."

"We were going to take the armored rig into the parking ramp next door to the Granite Court building," I say. "There's a side entrance to the building, and the entrance would've been protected by the upper decks of the ramp. Sergeant Baron was to let Officer Reed and I out of the rig to enter the building, while he took the Armadillo up to the top deck of the ramp. We were to let him know we made it safely inside the building by giving two clicks on our CC units. After that, we were to give him a few seconds, then we were to start moving towards the southern stairwell of the building, which led to the roof access. He'd give us a double-click on the CC unit to let us know he'd made it to the roof, then he'd give another click to let us know he was getting ready to throw the diversions. When we heard the diversions going, we were to make our move, storming the roof and taking Burnside out, hopefully with little difficulty. We had Air Ten monitoring our progress from the air, and Sergeant MacDonald was monitoring us on the ground via the CC units. And if it all went sour, we were supposed to get the hell out of Dodge and regroup, in order to try and come up with another plan."

"So what happened?" Friday asks.

"The bastard blew the ramp up before we got to it," I say. I gesture to the rubble of the ramp in the block before us. "That's what's left of the ramp after Burnside detonated it. He triggered it as we were approaching it, evidently figuring that's how we were going to get him. The debris crashing down not only mired the Armadillo, rendering it useless, but it also came down on Engine 51, trapping and injuring Captain Stanley, who was inside the cab of the fire truck at the time."

"Were either of you injured in the blast?" Friday asks.

"Other than being jostled around some, no," I tell him. "We were trapped inside the Armadillo for a few moments, though, the blast had jammed the doors. Sergeant Baron was able to get out on the passenger side of the rig, and between the three of us, we managed to get the back doors popped open so Officer Reed and I could get out."

"Did you three return to the command post at that time, to regroup and replan?"

"No, Sergeant Baron returned, but Officer Reed and I tried to assist the crew of Engine 51 in freeing their captain from the wreckage of the fire truck. We returned to the command post when Sergeant MacDonald ordered us to."

"Did Burnside fire at any of you at that time?" he asks. "You were sitting ducks, after all."

"No, he didn't," I say. "I think he wanted us alive in order to torture us."

Sergeant Friday raises his eyebrows. "Torture you? How so?" he asks.

"When we got back to the command post and were in the process of trying to come up with another plan to bring him down, he made contact with us via a CC unit," I tell him.

"Did you know he had one?" he asks.

"Not until then, no," I say. "When he made contact with us, it was surprising. We didn't expect it."

"What did he say to you?"

"He asked us if we liked that big bang, meaning the parking ramp blowing up," I tell him. "We didn't recognize his voice at first, Sergeant MacDonald ordered whoever was on that frequency to get off of it, and that's when Burnside revealed that it was him on the CC unit. From there, he began to taunt us, launching a personal attack against all three of us, Officer Reed, Sergeant MacDonald, and I. Some of the bullshit he said over the air was downright vicious."

"Like what?" he asks. "Give me an example."

"He told me that my wife was cheating on me, going to bars when I wasn't home, and that he'd apparently had an affair of some sort with her," Reed says, disgust in his voice. "He said that the baby she's carrying now isn't mine. Burnside claims he staked my house out many nights, and witnessed my wife going to bars. He basically gave me a line of bullshit over my marriage and the current state it's in."

"He called me a pedophile," I say, the word itself a bad taste in my mouth. "He said that's the only reason I'm dating Judy, so I can have access to her young son. He claimed that's the reason why I used excessive force on that child molestor we arrested awhile back, that I was beating something out of a man that I secretly despised in myself." I point to Jim. "He called him trigger-happy, since Jim was involved in an off-duty shooting incident. He landed on Sergeant MacDonald for the time he hit that pedestrian while on duty."

"He whined about his life after he'd gotten fired from the police department," Reed says. "He wanted to throw himself a little pity party, and invited us along, but we didn't take the bait. He'd informed us that he had other buildings in the area rigged to explode, including our personal residences. He wouldn't divulge what buildings he'd rigged, though, when Sergeant MacDonald asked him."

"Didn't what he was saying to you anger the three of you?" Friday asks. "If someone were personally attacking me in such a vicious verbal manner, I'd certainly be angry."

"Sure we were," I say. "But what could we do? Other than turning off the CC unit, there wasn't much we could do. And in turning it off, we cut our one line of communication to him, however nasty it may be." I shake my head. "No, as evil and vicious as his statements were to us, we needed to keep him talking. It was our only insight into what he was thinking. And I think we were hoping he'd eventually run himself down, and give up."

"Were you prepared to wait him out, then, if it came to that?" Friday asks.

"Yeah, we had no choice. We were going to be losing our daylight in a little while, and the scenarios we could come up with in regards to entering the building once more and taking him down were nearly impossible," I say.

"So how did you go from standing down here, deciding to wait him out, to the two of you getting into the Granite Court building and taking him out?" Friday asks. "I don't understand it. The prudent decision was to wait for a better opportunity to get him, even if it meant waiting."

"That was the plan," Reed says. "Until we got him mad enough to shoot one of the firefighters who was still working to free Captain Stanley. He shot him in the shoulder, wounding him."

"So upon seeing that, you decided to move in and get him?"

Reed bites his lip and stares at his boots. "Yeah, I did," he says, his voice harsh. "I grabbed up one of the rifles and took off across the street in order to get the bastard."

"And you followed?" Friday asks, looking at me.

I nod. "I wasn't going to let him get killed, if I could help it."

"Did Sergeant MacDonald give you the order to go get Burnside at that point?" he asks.

"No, he ordered both of us back to the command post," Reed says. "And we both disobeyed those orders."

Friday studies the two of us. "You know, I'm really surprised," he says. "Two officers with such distinguished careers as yours were willing to chuck that all to hell, in order to play hero."

Reed's head snaps up, anger flashing dangerously in his eyes. "Neither of us were playing hero, Sergeant, believe me!" he growls at Friday. "We were both sick and tired of what that evil sonofabitch had put everyone through this afternoon, and that's why we reacted the way we did! Playing hero was the farthest thing from my mind, and I'm sure it was the farthest thing from Pete's mind, too!"

Val Moore sighs wearily. "And before you begin to harp on the issue of protocol and disobeying orders, both Officer Reed and Officer Malloy are aware that there will be consequences from their rash actions, and will face those consequences before an in-house disciplinary board. I can assure you of that, Sergeant Friday."

"That board is going to be awfully damned busy deciding the fates of these two men," Friday tells him sharply. "Seeing as they've committed several rather serious infractions in just a few hours' time." He turns back to Reed. "So you impetuously grabbed up one of the rifles and started after Burnside, your partner in tow. Did he shoot at either of you?"

"No, he held his fire," I say. "He allowed us both to get into the building without firing a single shot at us."

"And then what?"

"I made it to the roof of the building," Reed says. "I was prepared to gun him down the minute I hit that roof, but the rifle jammed on me. When I went for my service revolver, Burnside revealed that he had dynamite strapped to his waist, and had the detonator in his hand. He threatened to blow the two of us up, and forced me to drop my weapon, taking me hostage."

"When I arrived on the rooftop, I saw Burnside holding a gun to Officer Reed's head. Burnside showed me the dynamite he was wearing, along with the detonator, and he told us he was going to blow all of us up," I say. "I didn't want to shoot through my partner, nor did I want to take the chance of my shot making Burnside's fingers twitch on the detonator button, so I lowered my weapon. At that point, our chances of getting off of that rooftop alive seemed pretty slim. Burnside knew that, and took that opportunity to taunt us some more."

"Until the chopper flew by, diverting Burnside's attention long enough for me to yank the detonator out of his hand and shove him over the side of the roof," Reed says.

Friday stares at Jim for a good long minute. "Did I hear you right?" he asks, amazed. "You grabbed the detonator out of his hand and shoved him off of the roof?"

Jim nods. "Yep," he says, but there is no trace of pride in his voice.

"How did the chopper know to fly past?" he asks.

"I left my CC unit open," I tell him. "So that Sergeant MacDonald would know at all times what was going on. He ordered the fly-by."

"So, no shots were fired at him at all, other than the initial cover fire?" Friday asks.

"Nope. It all went down exactly as Reed said it did," I tell him.

"Alright," Friday says, shaking his head. "From this point, I'm going to stop the interview so that we can do the walk-through. I'll need the two of you to take us through the events up on the rooftop, step by step."

"Got it," I say.

Val grabs the tape recorder and microphone, stopping the tape from recording any further. "I'm coming with you, of course," he says. "And I'll be recording the interview on the roof for our records."

Friday rolls his eyes, sighing. "That is your choice, Captain Moore," he says. He jerks his head at Bill Gannon. "Let's go," he says. "Get this over with." He begins to stride purposefully up the street towards the Granite Court building. Gannon falls in behind, along with Val, who's carrying the tape recorder and mike in his hands.

"Amen," Reed mutters, as we lag a bit behind the trio. "I thought we'd never get to the walk-through." Then the two of us fall silent as we follow along.

The klieg lights mounted on the trucks light up the area like it's high noon. Smaller kliegs, used in the triage area, are now set up in various spots to aid in lighting up some of the spots the bigger lights can't quite reach. They cast a blinding, bright white glow to the scene, rendering it rather surrealistic, like an obscene and oversized work of art. Dust still drifts in the air, lending a ghostly, gritty haze to it all. I notice that the black bomb squad van is parked as close to the piles of rubble as it can get.

We climb over the first pile of rubble and reach the mired Armadillo. Sergeant Friday comes to a halt. "This the Armadillo?" he asks, gesturing to it.

"Of course," I say. I point to the smashed fire engine next to the rig. "And that's what's left of Engine 51."

He looks the Armadillo over with a critical eye. "Pretty sturdy rig, huh?" he asks, rubbing a hand on the side, as if petting a favorite dog.

"It more than proved its worth out here," I say. "Without it, I don't know what we would have done."

"We wouldn't have been able to pull those people out of the park, that's for damned sure," Reed says.

Friday studies the piles of rubble with evident trepidation. "There's no other way over this?" he asks, looking back at us. Apparently the good sergeant is loathe to climb even the smallest mound of rubble.

"Unless you flap your wings and fly," Reed mutters under his breath.

Friday frowns. "What was that, Officer Reed?"

"I said, 'there's no other way to get by,'" he lies. He grins slightly, catching my eye.

"We got over it, Sergeant, I'm sure you can too," I say cheerfully. "Just tell yourself, I think I can, I think I can."

"Pete, don't be disrespectful," Val warns, but he shoots me a small smile.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Joe, just start climbing the damned thing and get your butt over it," Gannon tells him. "It's not like it's Mount Everest or anything." Gannon begins to climb the pile of rubble. "See?" he calls, looking back over his shoulder at his partner. "I'm a helluva lot older than you, Joe, and I can climb it."

Carefully, Friday begins to follow Bill Gannon over the pile of cement chunks and sharp rebar. He freezes as a couple of smaller pieces of concrete tumble from the pile, but seeing that the rubble is in no danger of becoming an avalanche, he quickly scales the rest of it, picking his way down as daintily as a ballerina in toe shoes. Val scales the pile next, without any hesitation, and then Reed and I take it, following much the same path as we took before. With a slight grimace of disgust, Friday brushes the dust off of his pants.

Reed catches sight of him doing that. "If you think that's bad, Sergeant, I've got news for you," he says. "The inside of the Granite Court building is much worse than this out here. Burnside deactivated the electricity to the building, and when the ramp blew up, it set off both the sprinklers and the fire alarms inside. When Pete and I came out, there was water nearly up to the second step of the first stairwell."

"Yeah," I say. "That's why we squish when we walk."

The leader of the bomb squad, Sergeant Marty Nimler, and his technicians are getting ready to leave the scene, their equipment in their hands. He spots us walking towards him and waves us over. "We're ready to leave, Captain Moore," he tells Val. "We've checked out the rest of the Granite Court building, along with the park pavilion and the areas around the playground equipment. They all check out okay. We didn't find any explosives. We did, however, find the body of the security guard for the Granite Court building. He's in a janitor's closet on the first floor. I marked it with some crime scene tape so the homicide dicks would process it. Oh, and we gave the dynamite strapped to your sniper the once over, too. That device is deactivated, so it's safe to remove him when you get ready to take the body away. We also silenced the fire and security alarms inside the Granite Court building, so you won't go deaf when you enter. You'll still need flashlights to see, though, the lights are shut down."

Val nods. "Good enough," he says to the man. "Thanks for your assistance today, not only out here, but at the other residential sites, too. It's greatly appreciated, Sergeant Nimler."

"Not a problem," Nimler tells him. "I'll stop by and let the sergeant at the command post know that everything out here checked out okay." He nods to the rest of us, then he and his men begin climbing over the rubble to return to their vans.

I gesture to the shattered remains of Squad 51. "There's the medics' rescue squad," I say. "You can see how he shot the windshield out, along with the tires, the light bar, and the side mirror." We begin walking again, stretched in a thin line, five abreast, with Reed and I at the lead. I point to the rubble covering Burnside's rental truck, only the tailgate visible. "There's Burnside's truck," I say. "What's left of it, anyway." I glance over at Reed. "I feel like I'm giving a freakin' tour or something here," I say, sotto voce.

"Yes," he whispers back. "And be sure to point out the dead bodies lying in the middle of the street, for their added viewing enjoyment." And I hear the sharp edge of bitterness in his voice once more.

Sergeant Friday halts in front of the Granite Court building, studying the blown-out glass doors that are hanging lopsidedly from the frames, murky water cascading over the wooden bottoms and flowing merrily out onto the cracked pavement. He looks over at the carnage in the street, yellow sheets now covering the dusty remains of the deceased, the first victims of Charles Burnside's vicious attack on this ordinary day. The homicide dicks have been here already and tagged the victims, doing their duty quickly so they can move on to the next set of dead. Friday mutely shakes his head, then he looks at Reed and I. "I'll need the two of you to walk us through it from here," he says. "Starting with Officer Reed."

Val clicks on the recorder, holding the mike out so it will pick up our conversation.

"Like I said, I just grabbed one of the rifles we'd been using in the field and took off after Burnside," Reed says. "I climbed over the rubble without any problems, and made it into the building just fine."

"And I grabbed up one of the rifles and went after him," I say.

"Did Sergeant MacDonald try to physically stop either of you?" he asks.

"He did me," I say. "He was only able to yell at Reed, he'd moved too fast for any kind of physical reaction on Sergeant MacDonald's part. And with me, all he did was grab my sleeve. He didn't try to hold on to me or anything."

"And you made it over the rubble okay?" he asks.

"I slipped a bit and cut my knee on a piece of rebar," I say. "But I made it into the building just fine, too."

"And you say Burnside didn't fire at either of you?"

"Nope. He let us get into the building, unscathed," I say.

Friday looks at Reed. "Did you have any sort of plan formulated in your mind as far as getting him?" he asks.

"No, other than to shoot the sonofbitch the second I saw him," Jim says.

"And you?" he asks, looking at me.

"My concern was for my partner," I say. "I had no plan formulated at all."

"That him?" Friday asks, pointing to yellow-sheeted, crumpled form of Charlie Burnside. The sheet covers all the damage that a fall from four story building did to his body.

Reed glances at the bright yellow sheet, then looks away. "Yes," he says. "That's what's left of Charlie Burnside." He sets his mouth in a grim line, refusing to meet my eyes.

"Let's go inside," Friday says. He pulls a small flashlight from his pocket and turns it on, entering the building, stepping over the wooden threshold with a grimace of disgust at the filthy water flowing out. "I sure hope my drycleaner can get this crap out," he mutters to Bill Gannon, who is faithfully following behind, his own flashlight in his hand.

"Joe, your drycleaner should be able to clean that muck out just fine," Gannon tells him.

"But my shoes are going to squish for the next several days," Friday complains.

"It's a risk you take on the job, Joe," Gannon says. "You sometimes get dirty trying to find the truth."

Val Moore steps across the threshold, paying no mind to the disgusting water that quickly soaks his pants and soggies his shoes. "You've forgotten how filthy it can get out here, Sergeant," he says. "When you've been out of uniform patrol for so long."

Reed and I cross the threshold, our feet splashing into the water. The icy deluge soaks my boots once more, and I swear I can feel my toes shrivel in shock. I pull my flashlight out, flicking it on, and Reed does the same. I play the beam around the area of the lobby, noticing that the level of the water has dropped with the sprinkler system being shut down. It stopped raining indoors when they turned off the busted water main in the street, which is a good thing, because had the sprinklers kept on going, the building would likely be floating halfway to Hawaii by now.

"Watch the steps," I warn. "They're slippery."

Holding on to the soggy wooden railings, Sergeant Friday begins to climb the stairs, followed by the rest of us. The carpeting on the steps is so waterlogged, when we set our feet down on it, it squooshes loudly and water squirts up around our tread. We trudge along silently, until we reach the fourth floor landing, and the stairwell that leads to the roof. Friday stops, swinging around to face us. "Were you able to get Burnside lined up in your sights, Officer Reed?" he asks. "When you reached this landing?"

Jim shakes his head. "No, I didn't even stop on the landing, I just continued on until I came to the roof." He points to the fire escape door, the heavy metal propped open with a concrete block. "He had the door propped open, and I…"

"That was a very foolish thing to do, Officer Reed," Friday says, interrupting Jim. "You could've walked right into his line of fire."

"I realize that, but I didn't walk into his line of fire," Jim tells him. "It was like he was waiting for me to come to him."

"Did you stop on the landing, Officer Malloy, and try to get a fix on the situation up here?" he asks.

I nod. "I'd already clicked on the CC unit when I was still on the first floor, and let Sergeant MacDonald know that I'd made it into the building. Whether Burnside caught that traffic on his CC unit, I don't know. I made sure the unit stayed on as I went up the steps. I kept listening for a gunshot, but heard none. When I got to the final set of stairs here, I got down on my stomach and crawled up the final flight, trying to be as quiet as I could be. I got to the landing and came to my feet, trying to use what little bit of cover the wall alongside the fire escape doorframe afforded me. I listened for conversation, but there was none, so I carefully made my way out onto the roof."

"And it was after you'd made the mad dash to the roof, that Burnside got the drop on you, right, Officer Reed?" Friday asks.

Reed hesitates. "Yes," he says.

"I want you to come out onto the roof and show me where you were standing when Burnside overpowered you," he says, walking out onto the roof. Gannon follows.

Jim brushes past Val and I on the stairwell, and we fall in behind him. "I was about here," he says, stepping a few feet over the fire escape threshold onto the roof. "I had just made it out when I saw Burnside standing near the edge of the roof. The second I saw him, I squeezed the trigger on the rifle, but it wouldn't fire, it was jammed. That split-second of the misfire gave Burnside the opportunity to get the drop on me. He didn't physically overpower me or anything like that, he just showed me the revolver he had pointed at my heart in one hand, and the detonator for the dynamite he wore in the other. He told me if I made any move towards my service weapon, he'd blow us all up." Jim stops, staring around the rooftop that is bathed in bright light. He rubs his forehead, biting his lip.

"Officer Reed, what happened next?" Friday asks.

"I'm getting to that," Reed snaps suddenly, his irritated outburst a surprise. "Do you think this is easy for me to do? To admit to my partner, my captain, and two investigating detectives that I screwed up royally, and nearly cost my partner his life, along with mine?"

"Jim, we understand," I say, taking a step towards him in hopes of calming him. "It's not a horrible thing that you did up here. Foolish, yes, but not horrible."

He shoots me a venomous glare, making me halt in my tracks, then he turns that glare on an impassive Sergeant Friday. "You wanna know how the rest of it went down?" he asks, his voice razor-sharp with anger. "I'll tell you, Sergeant. Burnside made me remove my service revolver from the holster on my military harness, sliding it across the rooftop to him. Then he made me get down on my hands and knees and crawl to him, like I was a dog begging for mercy. He knew that Pete was coming up the steps next, and he made me turn around, still on my knees, and face the stairwell, knowing that seeing me in that position would freeze Pete in his tracks. He wanted Pete to see me at his mercy, like I was a goddamned idiot, the revolver pointed at the back of my head." He closes his eyes, a violent shudder coursing through him suddenly. "And you know what the evil bastard said to me right before Pete got here?" he asks, his voice a harsh whisper.

Friday shakes his head. "No, what?" he asks.

"He…" Reed gags suddenly, putting a hand over his mouth, his face going pale. He swallows hard, then he speaks again, barely getting the words out through gritted teeth. "He told me that the baby my wife is carrying isn't mine, it's his. It's his child my Jean is pregnant with."

"Oh Jesus," I say in shock, starting towards him once more. "Jim, I'm sorry…" I begin.

"Pete, leave me alone!" he warns sharply, holding his hand out. "Back off!" He turns a hard-eyed gaze back to Sergeant Friday. "That's when Pete arrived on the scene. And Burnside held him at bay, using me as a shield." Dropping his head down, his jaw clenched, he shoves his balled-up fists into the pockets of his coveralls. It's clear he's done speaking for now.

I pick up the narrative. "I got out here on the roof and saw Jim down on his knees, facing me, with Burnside holding a gun to his head. He held the detonator for the dynamite in the other hand. He asked me if I was looking for something, meaning Jim. He displayed the dynamite he had strapped around his waist. He told us he wanted to go out famous, as the Granite Park Sniper. I tried to talk to him, reason with him, but he wasn't willing to back down. I asked him to at least spare Jim, because of his family, but Burnside refused. He wanted us to go down in flames with him. At that point, I had no choice but to concede to him. I wasn't about to shoot through Jim, and I feared a head shot might make Burnside twitch, possibly setting off the dynamite. I had no clear shot at him." I hesitate, remembering the look of sorrow and defeat in Jim's eyes when he realized we were about to die at the hands of a madman. "It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do," I say, my voice hoarse with bitterness. "To admit defeat to a scumbag asshole like Charles Burnside, and know that we were going to die."

"You were going to die because neither one of you used your damned heads," Friday says sharply. "You two continually disregarded protocol throughout this incident, which is indefensible in itself, but you also chose to barge up here onto this rooftop, without any kind of plan in place at all, in order to bring down Charlie Burnside."

"Screw protocol," Reed snaps, raising his head sharply. "We got the goddamned job done. The sonofabitch is dead, isn't he?"

"And he very nearly took the two of you out with him," Friday snaps back. "You can't enjoy a hero's life if you're dead, Officer Reed. And it would be a small consolation to your wife and son, plus your unborn child, for you to be awarded the Medal Of Valor posthumously."

"I don't want a hero's life, I don't want the goddamned Medal Of Valor," Reed growls, menace in his voice. "I just wanted this mess to be over with, Sergeant. I was sick of seeing what he'd done to those people, those kids. It tears at my heart, you know. Seeing so many wounded, so many dead, so many scared victims brought out of there. They'll have to live with the scars of what happened out here for the rest of their lives, Sergeant." He turns his head away. "And so will we."

Friday falls silent, staring at Jim. "Tell me about the final moments, Officer Reed. Leading up to when you shoved him over the side of the roof."

Jim keeps his head turned away. "There isn't much to tell, Sergeant," he says dully. "The chopper flew by, offering a diversion, and I took that moment that Burnside's attention was drawn away from Pete and I, and grabbed the detonator out of his hands. At the same time, I shoved backwards with my upper body and sent him over the roof. The detonator disconnected when he fell."

"Weren't you concerned the dynamite might detonate when his body impacted with the ground?" he asks.

Jim shrugs. "Yeah, but it didn't."

"Lucky for you," Friday remarks. "The two of you could've been blown to kingdom come."

Jim turns and looks at him, pure hate in his eyes. "Yeah, HOW lucky for us," he snaps venomously, his voice dripping with saracasm, then he strides over to the edge of the roof, looking out at the scene down below with a faraway expression.

Friday turns to me. "That how it went down, Officer Malloy?" he asks.

I nod. "It is," I say. "The chopper flew by and gave Reed a chance to react."

He gestures around to the sniper's nest, the footlocker filled with ammo clips, K-rations, canteens, and toilet paper. "He had quite a set-up up here, didn't he?" he asks.

"He was in it for the long haul," I say.

Friday turns to Gannon. "Bill, I'll need a sketch made up of this rooftop. Include the layout of his nest, making sure to mark the spot where the rifle was mounted on the tripod near the edge. Make a note of all the equipment he had up here." He looks over his shoulder at Reed, who's still standing at the edge, looking over. "Where was your exact location, Officer Reed, when Burnside had you hostage?"

"Right where I'm standing now," Jim says quietly. "Give or take a few feet away from the edge of the roof. Burnside was right behind me."

Friday looks at me. "And I assume you were fairly close to the fire escape door?" he asks.

I nod. "I was about where Officer Gannon is at now," I say.

"Okay," Friday says. "Bill, make sure and note whereabouts both Officer Reed and Officer Malloy were at up here, along with Charlie Burnside." He looks at Val Moore. "That pretty much concludes our interview, Captain," he says. "Other than the notes and sketches we need to make up here."

"I'd like to look over the notes Officer Gannon made," Val says, clicking the tape recorder off. "If I could, please."

Friday frowns. "Why?"

"Just a matter of protocol, you could say," Val tells him, smiling slightly. "I'd just like to make sure they're accurate with what Officer Reed and Officer Malloy have stated."

Gannon hands his notebook over to Val. "It's not a problem," he says, shrugging. "It's as close to the interview as I can get." Tearing off a sheet of paper from the back of the notebook, he clips it to his clipboard and begins sketching out the rooftop.

I make my way over to where Jim is standing at. He has his hands resting on the cement edge of the parapet, and he leans on them slightly, his gaze focused in on the activity in the park. "Don't jump," I say jokingly. "You have a lot to live for."

He swings his head around to look at me, his eyes dark with despair. "Do I?" he asks softly. "Do I really, Pete?"

"C'mon," I say gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You have to know that whatever Burnside said to you earlier was a complete line of utter bullshit. Jean's not having an affair, she's not pregnant with his kid, and she's not hitting the bars at night, Jim. She wouldn't be drinking while pregnant, anyway. And I know she wouldn't do that shit to you, Jim. She loves you too much."

"I dunno," he says, looking back out over the park. "Jean's changed her attitude towards me, Pete. It's like sometimes she can't stand to be around me, and believe me, the feeling is mutual. All we do anymore is argue, and I don't think the marriage counselling is helping much. She lashes out at me, I lash out at her, and together we're very unhappy. Our marriage has lost something, and I don't know how we can go about finding it." He rubs at his forehead. "Or if we even want to anymore. I don't know that it's worth it to either of us, Pete." He shrugs wearily, shaking my hand off. "Maybe we married way too young. I don't even know if she loves me anymore."

"The bigger question you need to ask yourself is if you still love her, Jim," I say. "At least enough to try and make the marriage work."

He is silent for a moment, then he speaks. "I don't know, Pete. I honestly don't know. And I'm getting awful damned tired of fighting all the time, you know? Maybe we should just throw in the towel and call it quits," he says, his voice bitter once more. "Divorce is looking better and better all the time."

"But what about Jimmy?" I ask. "And the unborn baby? You won't be in their lives every day, Jim. And I'd hate to see you miss out on being a father, it's what makes you happiest."

"I'm sure Jean would grant me equal custody," he sighs. "And what kind of life is it now for Jimmy anyway? Even though we try not to fight in front of him, he knows that his mom and dad aren't getting along. It's gotta be upsetting and stressful for him to see us this way. He's too young to understand what's really going on."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" I ask. "Whatever you need, whatever has to be done, name it and I'll move heaven and earth to get it done."

"I know," he says quietly. "And I appreciate it, Pete, really I do. You've been like a brother to me over the years, and I know that I can always count on you to be there for me." He inclines his head towards the park. "How many do you think he killed out there today?" he asks, changing the subject.

I shake my head. "Dunno. Upwards of twenty, twenty-five at least. And that's not counting the ones who may end up dying at the hospitals, too."

"This has been the worst scene I've ever worked," he says, closing his eyes. "I can't believe this whole situation. I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around it, you know?"

"I know," I say. "I am, too. In all my years on the force, I've never had to deal with something as horrific as this."

"They've got the easy jobs," he says, pointing to the several homicide dicks working in the park. Flashbulbs pop as they take pictures of the deceased, lying where Charles Burnside's bullets felled them. They carefully document each body with several different camera shots, and they handle the deceased with the utmost care when they gently shift them to look for identification. When the detective taking the pictures is finished, they put a tag identifying the body around either a wrist or an ankle, then they cover them up with a yellow sheet. If there was no ID found on the body, they'll be labelled as Jane or John Doe, until they can sort through the evidence still out here at the scene, like the cars parked in the lot, and match them up that way. And they'll interview the families of the dead, to make sure they get the identifications properly made. "The detectives just come in and mop up afterwards. We did the hard work today, not them," he says.

"I wouldn't say they've got it easy, Jim," I tell him. "They've got to do the identifications, notify the families of the deceased, and process the rest of the scene besides. That's no small task, believe me. It's just as hard as ours was out here today, and just as heartbreaking. They'll have to do those notifications several times over in a day's time."

"Is that why you never became a detective?" he asks, still watching the work in the park. "It's too heartbreaking to do?"

"No," I say. "That's not why. Over the years, detective work appealed to me less and less. I don't like the fact that you don't interact as much with the public as we do in our jobs as beat cops. Spending months working a case that oftentimes doesn't have the expected outcome seems dull to me. I wouldn't like being cooped up inside all day, either, sitting behind a desk."

"Yeah, I guess," he says noncommitally. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, as an idea evidently comes to him. "Pete, your rifle jammed on you in the park, didn't it?" he asks.

"Yeah, but I think it was because the clip was empty," I say. "I put in a fresh clip when we came back from that run."

"You didn't fire it anymore after it jammed, right?" he asks.

"No, I was helping out loading up victims by that time," I say.

He turns and looks at me. "After we returned to the command post when the parking ramp blew, where did you lay your rifle down?"

"Next to the rear wheel of the logistics truck," I say, frowning. "I leaned it up against the side of the van. Why?"

He closes his eyes, shaking his head. "Oh Christ," he mutters, grimacing. "That was the one I grabbed up when I went after Burnside."

I feel myself go pale with shock. "Oh my God," I whisper. "That's why the rifle jammed on you up here." I swallow hard the horror that rises in my throat. "Jim, I'm so sorry. It wasn't done on purpose. I would never have dreamed of giving you a weapon that didn't work and you know it."

"I know it," he says, eyes still closed. "But I went in to battle with a useless rifle. And it almost got both of us killed, Pete." His voice is almost a half-sob.

"If anyone's to blame, it's me," I say. "I should have asked Gus for a different rifle after that one jammed."

"Just forget it," he says, turning away from me. "Just forget it, Pete." He leans his elbows on the edge of the parapet and returns his distant gaze to the park below.

"I…" I begin.

He cuts me off. "Just drop it, okay, Pete? I don't wanna talk anymore. About anything. Just let me be, alright?" he pleads. "I can't deal with this right now."

I study him for a long moment. I try to think of words of comfort I can offer my partner and best friend right now, but none come to mind. So instead, I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to intrude on his thoughts, and I lean against the edge of the roof, watching the work in the park, too. The dusty haze fills the air, giving the brightly lit park a foggy, dreamlike quality. The emerald green grass is pocked now with tire tracks from the Armadillo, dotted here and there with yellow sheets that hide such awful tragedy underneath their sunny color. I close my eyes as the breeze ruffles my hair. It's chilly up here on the roof, and I shiver a bit, noticing that Jim's shivering, too. I glance over my shoulder at Val Moore and Sergeant Friday, who are speaking with Bill Gannon. Their conversation is a dull thrum in my ears; I try to tune it in, but can't muster the interest, so I forget it. I look over at Jim Reed, who hasn't changed position, his anguished eyes still staring blindly at the park below. And I notice in the dust and grime on his face, the tracks of silent tears sliding down his cheeks. I turn away, not wanting him to know I can see him crying, for emotion like that is such a private thing. My heart aches for him and what he's going through, I wish like hell I could take it all off of his shoulders and restore his life to the way it was before.

But I know, deep down inside of me, that life for the both of us has forever changed on this day, this plain ordinary day. Nothing will ever be the same again. The befores are now ancient history in our lives, while the afters seem rather daunting indeed. What we will face in the days to come is not going to be pleasant or easy. I sigh heavily, my bones aching from weariness. Oh, what I wouldn't give to take back this awful day, to turn back the clock and start all over, I think to myself. Or pretend it never happened at all. I lean over slightly, looking over the edge at Burnside's sheet-covered body below. And I suddenly feel a hot wave of pure, unadulterated hate for the man who caused so much tragedy, so much havoc, so much sorrow, on such a nice day. As fast as it hits me, it leaves me, a hollowness inside me where the anger blazed at moments before. And then I know, truly know, that there's no such thing as a happy ending…for any of us. The best that we can hope for is something in between.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION.** In order to enhance the overall plot experience, creative liberties may have been intentionally taken with the real-life protocols depicted herein.

Someone comes up next to me on the other side and I turn my head to see Val Moore, gazing at the scene below with unabashed horror in his grey eyes. "So much death, so much destruction," he says softly, visibly awed. "Makes you wonder how a single man can do so much damage in just a day's time."

"Has it really only been a day?" I ask, wearily rubbing at my forehead. "It seems a helluva lot longer than that. More like an eternity."

"Time slows in the midst of a tragedy, time speeds up in its aftermath," he says. "Or at least that's what it always feels like."

"Bet you've never seen something as horrific as this in your career, have you?" I ask.

"No," he says, shaking his head. "I haven't. And I had hoped I never would, either. But as society changes and evolves, I suppose such atrocious acts of violence are to be expected. Violence is the norm nowadays."

"Not this much violence, Val," I say. "This is more like something out of an action movie, not real life. I keep expecting to see movie cameras rolling and hearing a director yelling 'cut!' Instead, there's…" I hesitate, my tired brain searching for the right words to describe the scene below. I'm at a loss, so I just gesture across the parapet, saying, "…this. There's just this. Silence and so much death."

"It's unreal, to be sure," he says. He stares out at the yellow-sheeted bodies lying covered in the brightly-lit park. "I wonder what Burnside was thinking when he carried all of this horror out?" he asks quietly.

I shrug, my shoulders sore and aching from tension and strain. "We may never know, Val," I tell him.

"I don't wanna know," says Jim Reed from on the other side of me. "I don't give a rat's ass what the bastard was thinking. All I know is that I'm glad the sonofabitch is dead." His voice is low and harsh, and he keeps his eyes on the scene in the park. He rubs his palms across his face, wiping away the tracks of his tears from his cheeks. "Very glad," he reiterates, his jaw set firmly. The look he gives Val and I dares us to scold him for taking delight in killing Charlie Burnside.

"So you take joy in knowing that you've killed a man?" Sergeant Friday asks, coming up behind us. "I find that a bit unsettling, Officer Reed, especially for a police officer."

Reed turns around, staring at Sergeant Friday through narrowed blue eyes. "C'mere, Sergeant," he says, motioning to Sergeant Friday. "I want you to stand right here where I'm standing." He steps aside, allowing Friday to take his place. "Do you see all of that out there, Sergeant?" he asks, his voice laden with anger. "Do you SEE all the dead bodies lying under those yellow sheets out there in the park and in the street?" He jabs a shaking finger at the horrific scenes. "Do you honestly SEE all of that death and destruction out there, Sergeant Friday?" he repeats, his voice clearly strained with fatigue.

Friday stares out at the scene below, dark eyes scanning the park and the street. At first, no emotion registers on his face, but then as he takes in the numerous yellow-sheeted bodies dotting the grass of the park, one by one, I see his face slowly begin to lose the dour expression, being replaced by stunned shock and horror at what lies before us. For a moment, he leans hard on the parapet, his hands gripping the cement tightly, as he surveys the hellish scene. He clears his throat, but he doesn't speak. Evidently shock and horror are not two emotions Joe Friday is well-acquainted with.

Bill Gannon, standing on the other side of Jim, speaks for the both of them, as he presses against the parapet and studies the horrific sight in the brightly-lit park himself. "Jesus Christ," he murmurs, clearly in awe. "It looks like a war zone out there."

"Yes," Friday mumbles softly. "I see it, Officer Reed. Believe me, I do."

"No," Jim says, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "No, you don't see it, Sergeant. Take a good hard look at all of those bodies lying out there in Granite Park. Those bodies used to be people; living, breathing, thinking, feeling people who were alive just this morning. Husbands, wives, mothers, children, grandparents, college kids, high school kids…they were all someone to somebody, they meant something to someone, and now they're gone. Cut down in an instant by a madman's whim." Jim's voice begins to rise. "They were killed, not for political gain, or in the heat of an argument. They didn't give their lives in defense of our country, or for a stupid war in a foreign land. They died because they were THERE, Sergeant Friday. They were THERE, in this park, on this day, and therefore that made them Charlie Burnside's target." He flicks his gaze to the park, the muscles in his jaw twitching. "I stand up here and count AT LEAST twenty bodies out there, Sergeant. That's twenty folks who woke up this morning, very much alive and looking forward to the day ahead of them, and now it's twenty body bags that will be carried out of this area; taken out like they were nothing but garbage, because that's what Charlie Burnside has reduced them to. Human garbage. And how goddamned fucking sad is that, Sergeant Friday? That some crazy jackass with a rifle and a childish vendetta gunned them all down, just because they made the mistake of being in the park today." Reed points angrily to the remains of the blown-out parking ramp littered about the street. "And see that, Sergeant? What's left of the ramp? It's nothing more than large piles of chunked concrete and rebar on the ground level, but when you get up here and see the aerial view, you can see how shattered it truly is. It's busted and broken beyond repair." Reed looks back to the park, his eyes blazing with fury. "Just like the lives of the survivors and loved ones of the deceased out there, Sergeant. Shattered and broken beyond repair. And I find it utterly contemptible that you yourself are apparently incapable of feeling any emotion, other than disdain for the fact that I admitted I'm glad the bastard is dead."

Friday's eyes narrow as he turns his head and looks at Reed. "I assure you, Officer Reed, that I am just as upset over the high casualty rate incurred out here just as much as you are. I fully understand that those people out there meant something to someone, and that the lives of the survivors and loved ones left behind will be forever changed. But I am, first and foremost, a police officer, and I must conduct myself accordingly, without getting emotionally involved in the case or the victims. It is not that I don't feel genuine sorrow or horror for what has happened out here, I just must be capable of distancing myself from the emotional impact of it, knowing that my emotions have absolutely no place in an official police investigation."

"That's pretty cold and calloused," Reed snaps. "Even for a veteran detective such as yourself, Sergeant. Those were innocent people murdered in cold blood out there, and you cannot dredge up any sympathy for their loss? I find that very cruel, Sergeant. Utterly inhumane."

"You think so?" Friday challenges. "I can justify my harsh outlook because I know that the investigation is far from over. Sympathy can come later, much later, after the book is closed on the case. It is not our place to mourn the dead right now at this point, but to make sure that the investigation is free from bias and personal emotions."

Slightly angry and irritated at his dismissive attitude towards Jim, and I step in. "So, what you're saying, Sergeant, is it doesn't matter at all that those people died out there, just that we make sure that the investigation into this mess is conducted in an impersonal manner. We are not to feel sorrow or shock at their loss, we're just to consider them another toe tag and case file in the city morgue, right?"

"I'm not denying that the casualty loss out here is staggering beyond belief," Friday replies defensively, turning to me. "We thought that the high losses of life in Austin and Atlanta were horrific. And I'm in no way diminishing the jarring impact that this case has had on the city, the state, the country, and the world. But we must remember, in such a horrific incident like this, that all eyes are upon us, watching closely to see how we handle the investigation into it. There is no room for error in the prying gaze of the whole world. We cannot afford to make mistakes in how we handle this, lest we be made fools."

I shake my head wearily. "Fine, Sergeant. Justify it all you want, as long as it cuts shit with you. But it doesn't me. I still think you're a heartless, cruel, uncaring bas…"

"PETE!" Val snaps, warning me sharply. "Sergeant Friday is your superior officer!"

"No, I'd like to hear what he has to say, Captain Moore," Friday tells Val, looking at me through narrowed eyes. "I'm always interested in the opinions of a man who has shown no remorse for killing a suspect in the past."

"Pete's right," Jim growls at Friday. "You're nothing but a cold-hearted sonofabitch." He folds his arms across his chest, glaring at Sergeant Friday. "There, I said it. And let me repeat for you, Sergeant, in case you didn't hear me the first time. I'm glad I killed Charlie Burnside. I'm VERY glad I was the one who shoved his sorry ass over the edge of this building. I cannot bring myself to feel ANY sympathy at all for his passing. He was nothing but a contemptible coward, who couldn't face up to the fact that he was the one that caused the mess that his life ended up turning into, so he got a gun and came up here to vent his rage. He doesn't deserve my sympathy or even my pity. Those people that were murdered, wounded, or terrorized by him are the ones I feel genuinely sorry for. The survivors are the ones who need our sympathy now, not him. They have to pick up the pieces of their lives and somehow go on. Burnside only deserves my utter contempt and hate."

"Sergeant, are we done here?" Val asks, stepping in between Jim and Friday in order to attempt an end to the pissing match. "It's been a long day for both Officer Malloy and Officer Reed, and I'm sure you can understand that their tempers are not in the best of shape right now. They've been through a helluva lot, and it's wearing on them, Sergeant."

Friday stares at Reed, who glares back defiantly, then he speaks, his eyes never leaving Jim's. "We're done, Captain," he says. "For now." Nodding to Bill Gannon, he starts to turn away, but Jim stops him, holding his hand up.

"Look, Sergeant, you weren't out there," Jim says, his tone weary but still battle-edged. "You didn't see the shit we saw or experience the shit we experienced. It's easy for you to stand here and pass judgement against Pete and I for how we've acted, but you weren't the one who had a four-year-old child's head explode in your arms from a bullet. You didn't see the terrified preschool kids who had come to the park for a picnic, and ended up going out in an armored rig, guarded by men in black uniforms and carrying guns, their teachers and classmates horribly wounded by sniper fire, their little brains unable to even comprehend what hell was happening around them. You didn't see your partner damn near get killed, simply because he tried to save a woman's life. You didn't ride into that hell on that hot and stinking Armadillo, over and over again, horrified, disgusted, stunned, and wondering if you were going to survive the trip back. You weren't afraid and sickened like we were. You didn't see the death and damage and destruction up close like we did. Had you endured any of that, ANY of that at all, then you would know why neither Pete nor I are sorry that Charles Burnside is dead." Jim turns then, brusquely pushing past Sergeant Friday, going over to the fire escape stairwell.

"Officer Reed," Friday calls to him.

Jim stops, but doesn't turn around. "What," he asks, not as a question, but as a dull monotone. His head droops towards his chest.

"Truly, I am sorry for what you and Officer Malloy experienced out here today," Friday admits, his face softening slightly. "It must have been very difficult for the two of you, witnessing the tragedy and the horror as it was unfolding right in front of you. You may think I'm devoid of emotion or incapable of feeling sorrow for those killed, maimed, or left behind, but I do. Believe me, I do. Any death like this is senseless, made all the more incomprehensible by the randomness and the innocence of the victims selected by the gunman. The loss out here is astounding and shocking, and truly I feel grief for those who were thoughtlessly gunned down. But, in order for me to complete an unbiased investigation into this matter, I must keep my own personal feelings out of it. And as a cop, you should know that the first rule of thumb is to never get emotionally involved with a situation, no matter what. Emotions can easily color our opinions, influencing the outcome of a case for either good or bad. It's only a good, prudent officer who keeps his emotions out of his cases, for fear of breaching a strict moral ethic."

"Great," Jim responds, looking over his shoulder sourly. "I'll try and remember that the next time I'm wearing a little girl's brains on my bulletproof vest." He clicks on his flashlight and begins to walk down the steps.

Friday watches him for a moment, then he turns to Val. "Is Officer Reed always that emotional?" he asks.

"Given the circumstances, Sergeant, you can't hardly blame him," Val says, his voice a bit pointed. "What these two men experienced out here was nothing short of Dante's Inferno. I think it's highly commendable that they managed to keep their cool and their emotions well in check, until after the whole situation was over. I wonder how many men, yourself included, could do that?"

"Yeah, and also manage to keep their sanity out there, amidst all the bullets whizzing past your head, the screams of the wounded and scared, and the sight of so much death stretched out in the green grass of a park," I reply caustically. Then I turn away, clicking on my own flashlight and following Reed down the darkened fire escape stairwell. He is nearly down to the first floor, and by the time I reach that level myself, my boots sloshing through the ebbing water from the sprinkler system, he is outside already. I step through the warped frame of the glass double doors, the water that had been flowing over them now reduced to a slow, gurgling stream. I pause on the sidewalk, searching for Jim, then with a start, I see him.

He has climbed over the small pile of rubble surrounding Charlie Burnside's body, and he stands over the yellow-sheeted lump, staring down at it. He doesn't look up as I slowly approach him, he just continues to stare down, as if in a trance.

"Hey," I say softly. "We're ready to go. As soon as Friday, Gannon, and Val make it down here, we're heading back to the command post and then the station."

"Should I be sorry he's dead?" he asks, his tone dull. He keeps his eyes fixed on the yellow sheet before him.

"No," I tell him. "You shouldn't be. Why, do you think you should?"

He shrugs tiredly. "I dunno, Pete. I dunno." He kneels down, gingerly lifting the edge of the plastic yellow sheet, pulling it up far enough to reveal the shattered body of Charlie Burnside. He stares at the figure, transfixed, as a light breeze tugs gently at the yellow sheet gripped in his fingers.

I glance at Burnside's corpse and instantly regret it. Burnside's skull surprisingly didn't exploded on impact; instead, the force of his head striking the jagged piece of concrete caved the back of his skull inward, forcing bits of bone and brain matter out through his nose, ears, and gaping mouth in a grotesque splash of red, white, and grey. The rebar that pierced his body pokes up underneath the sheet, tenting it in an obscene phallic gesture around his groin, while the second piece of rebar jabs through his throat, impaling him firmly to the chunk of cement. Sharp jagged edges of numerous broken bones stick up through his bloodied skin, and his cloudy eyes stare sightlessly at the night sky overhead, mouth hanging open in a scream that will never be heard. Blood is drying on the cement chunks around him, thick maroon puddles that gleam stickily in the klieg lights. It soaks his green camoflauge pants, turning them black. The dynamite is still strapped to his chest, but the sticks have been deactivated by the bomb squad technicians, carefully removing the blasting caps and wires from the device so that Burnside's body can be safely moved to the morgue. The gun he'd held to Reed's head lies a few feet away from his outstretched hand, the pale fingers grappling lifelessly towards it. Dust still settling in the air from the parking ramp coats him lightly, lending him a macabre look, as if his gruesomeness isn't enough now. Charles Burnside, hellishly feared just a few hours ago as he carried out his dastardly deeds, is now reduced to nothing more than a sorry little clump of bloody rags, pale flesh, and shattered bone. Finding it rather fitting that he would end up this way, I swallow hard, looking away. I nudge Reed on the shoulder with my knuckle. "Drop the sheet, Jim, and let's go," I tell him. "It'll do you no good to stand here and stare at him. Or what's left of him."

Jim doesn't answer me, instead, he slowly stands up, the yellow sheet still in his fingers. Anger and hate compete in his eyes as he gazes down at the broken and shattered remnant of a human being in front of him, then he starts to draw his foot back, and with horror, I realize that he is about to crush the rest of Burnside's skull under the heavy tread of his boot.

I grab his arm roughly, jerking him away. "Don't do that!" I hiss at him. "Leave him alone, Jim!" I yank on his arm again, trying to bring him to his senses.

He knocks me away with a defiant glare, then he throws his head back, his jaw working as he makes a hawking sound, then he spits right on Burnside's shattered skull, the spittle landing right in the middle of the bloody face. "You evil sonofabitch, I hope you rot in the deepest bowels of Hell," he growls, dropping the sheet back over Burnside's body. He pushes roughly past me, ignoring my stunned stare as he scrambles across the small pile of rubble.

I turn to follow him, noticing that Sergeant Friday, Bill Gannon, and Val Moore are just coming out of the Granite Court Building. The three of them glance up as Jim strides past, but luckily, they evidently haven't been witness to Reed's minor desecration of Burnside's body. I brush past them in order to catch up with Jim, and when I do, I catch the look of curiosity Sergeant Friday gives me. I ignore him, continuing to follow my partner as he hurries down the dusty street at a rapid trot.

Reed quickly reaches the pile of rubble from the parking ramp and stops, turning to look back at me briefly before he starts to climb the pile. There is something in his chilly expression that gives me pause, and I slow my pace, wisely deciding to give him his distance, if that's what he prefers. He chooses his handholds and footholds carefully as he scales the rubble, and by the time I start climbing myself, he is already over the top of the rubble and slowly climbing down the other side. I pick and choose my own handholds and footholds, as small chunks of concrete rain and rattle down around me as I slowly climb. I hesitate when I reach the top, looking back to see where Val and the two detectives are at, but they're ambling along at a leisurely pace down the dusty road, and after a moment's thought, I begin the downward climb of the rubble myself. I lost sight of Jim while I was climbing, and I search for him in the flood-lit darkness, expecting to see him nearly to the command post by now. Instead, I spot him standing next to the Armadillo. I approach him slowly, half-expecting him to take off again, but to my surprise, he doesn't. Instead, he turns to watch me, his expression somewhat forlorn.

"We should thank this old girl for the work she did out here today," he mumurs when I reach him. He rubs his hand across the gunmetal-grey hull, his fingers leaving marks in the thick dust coating the rig. He walks around to the rear of the rig, his hand trailing along the side. He touches the rear door that is hanging half-open, mute testimony to our harried escape out of the vehicle after the parking ramp blew. The door creaks gently under his hand, swinging slightly. "Without her, I don't know what we woulda done. She pretty much saved our asses, you know," he says.

"Yeah, I know," I say. I touch the side of the Armadillo, studying the dust that rests in the whorls of my fingertips when I take my hand away. I rub my fingers together, the dust gritty against them, then I swipe my hand across the leg of my coveralls, leaving tracks of greyish-white amongst the other grime. I peer into the back end of the rig, thinking that it has seemed an entire lifetime ago since we left it beached out here amid the rubble, like a dolphin trapped amidst the ruins of Atlantis. In the klieg lights, I can still see the puddles of blood on the metal floor of the rig, drying maroon smears of crimson we tried to clean up but couldn't, after rescuing badly wounded victims. The fetid air trapped inside the metal hull of the Armadillo, once so thick with the smell of fear and sweat, vomit and blood, urine, shit and gunpowder; is now gone, replaced by the crisp night air with its oddly cleansing tang.

"I just wish we could've gotten into the area sooner with the rig," Reed says, patting the hull of the Armadillo with affection. "Maybe we coulda saved more people than we actually did."

I shrug. "Maybe. Maybe not. There wasn't that much time elapsed from when we arrived on scene, to when Gus brought the rig out and we got suited up." Hearing voices, I glance over at the mountainous pile of cement and rebar, and see that Sergeant Friday, followed by Bill Gannon and Val Moore, are coming down the side, carefully crawling across the chunks of concrete with slow, precise movements. I look back at Jim. "I think the vast majority of the fatalities happened during the first few minutes of Burnside's spree, though. So it wouldn't have made any difference at all if the rig got here any sooner or not. It coulda been just down the block when Burnside started shooting, and it still probably wouldn't have helped most of the ones who died."

"No," he says, shaking his head. "I suppose not." He looks over at the battered hulk of Engine 51. "Wonder how the fireboys are taking it?" he asks, gesturing to the remains of the engine. "Stoker loved that engine as much as you love Adam-12."

"It can be replaced," I say. "Unlike lives."

He catches sight of Sergeant Friday approaching, and he turns away with a sour grimace, starting to walk back to the command post. "Yeah," he says as I fall into step next to him, the two of us scaling the second pile of rubble rather easily. "Tangible things like vehicles can be replaced. Things like souls cannot." He looks over at me, his expression unreadable. "There were at LEAST twenty people dead in that park, from what I could see. But I'm sure there were more than that." He shakes his head in disgust. "Imagine that, Pete. Not even Whitman had that high of a body count."

"If Burnside was going for the maximum impact, he sure as hell got it," I tell him. "Not only in the body count, but the variety of victims. They were from all walks of life."

"Which is what makes it all the more unbearable," he says. He falls silent as we pass by one of the gas-powered generators fueling the klieg lights, the thick smell of motor oil and diesel fuel from the genny strong on the air currents that drift past us. We come to the spot where Adam-12 sat at, the outline of the car very clear on the pavement, for the grey cement dust sifted across everything except the ground beneath the squad, leaving a pristine patch of clean cement underneath the car. Reed puts a hand on my arm, stopping me. "Hey, thanks," he says, his voice a bit hesitant.

I peer at him in confusion. "For what?" I ask, frowning.

"For making sure I kept my cool out there, Pete," he says, shrugging.

I study him for a moment, as his eyes search mine, still looking for my approval, even after all these years as my partner. "You did just fine out there, Jim," I tell him. "You woulda kept your cool, whether I was there or not. You're too good a cop to have lost your head, even in a horrific situation as this one has been."

"Maybe," he admits a bit grudgingly, as if he doesn't believe me.

"No maybe," I tell him. "You woulda done just fine out there on your own, Jim, and you know it." I glance back at the party of Sergeant Friday, Gannon, and Val, and see that they are all three inspecting the Armadillo with interest. I watch them for a moment, the I turn, walking back towards Val's black sedan.

"Yeah, I guess," Reed says, following me.

I look at him over my shoulder, giving him a slight frown. "Whatever happened to the confident, gung-ho kid who took on a group of armed teenage thugs in a dark park a few years ago?" I ask. "He wasn't afraid of anything, including me."

"He's been replaced by the older model," Reed says, his voice quiet. "One that is not quite so sure of himself anymore, not only in his job, but in his life in general."

I fall silent, having no ready answer for him, at least none that would give him much solace right now. For I know that the undermining of Reed's confidence and faith in himself has come solely from Jean, for whatever reasons and whims she might have. Whether it's to influence him into changing jobs, or just for her own spiteful amusement, I have no clue, but I find it rather dastardly of her, not to mention cruel and thoughtless. But I wisely keep my opinions of Jean, her attitude, and her treatment of Jim to myself, not wanting to let Jim know I think very little of her right now, lest it upset him further. It's an opinion that started around the time of the Walters incident, and has only grown and festered as I've seen how nasty and downright bitchy Jean has become towards her husband. And while it's not my place to interfere with their marriage, should his lack of confidence in himself appear to worsen, something will have to be said. Cops need to project an air of complete confidence to the public while on duty; otherwise, it's a trait of weakness that can be fully exploited by a cunning crook who can use that chink in the armor against us for their own good. And it is never wise to appear less-than-confident in truly frightening situations, for if it becomes apparent to the public that we are scared ourselves, then that inflames their own fear even higher. We reach Val's car, and I sit down on the hood, weariness seeping through my very marrow. Reed sits down next to me, looking a little lost and forlorn as he studies his hands. "Hey," I say, nudging him with my shoulder. "Thanks for coming to my rescue after I got hit. I truly appreciate it."

He looks up and regards me for a moment, trying to detect any sarcasm or derision in my voice, and finding none. He shrugs. "No problem. I was seriously hoping you didn't get shot, since I didn't relish hauling your wounded ass back to the triage area. Mighta put a crimp in my style, ya know." He smiles slightly, proving to me his comment is in jest and means no harm.

"You got heart, partner," I tell him wryly, returning the grin. The movement feels foreign to me, as if the muscles in my face have forgotten how to smile.

"Is Sergeant Friday always such a jackass?" he asks, tilting his head back and staring up at the night sky.

"Yeah, for the most part," I tell him. "Of course, don't let the wonderful history he and I share color your opinion of him."

He clear his throat. "I'm not all that comfortable with attending this press conference tomorrow, Pete," he says.

I lean back against the hood, my palms flat against the black metal, as I turn my own gaze skyward. "Yeah, I know," I tell him. "Neither am I." I study the inky sky, the moon hiding behind veiled wisps of clouds, as stars freckle the darkness. I search out the North Star, and with my eyes, I trace the path of the Big Dipper, finding a small bit of comfort in the solid fact that it's still there in the night sky, a familiar sight amidst so much horror from today.

"Wonder if we could get out of it some way?" he asks, looking over at me. "I'm not exactly thrilled with the idea of being on public display, you know."

"Yeah, I know," I say. But we're kept from further conversation by the arrival of Sergeant Friday, Bill Gannon, and Val Moore.

"I told you, Sergeant, that you are more than welcome to follow us back to the station and pick up the rifles used by Officers Malloy and Reed from there," Val is saying to Friday. His voice is raised, evidence of a disagreement going on between the two men.

"I'm not sure why you're balking on this, Captain," Friday says. "The weapons were only fired during the course of rescue operations. They were not fired in order to bring Charlie Burnside down. His death was affected by other means."

"Sergeant," Val says, somewhat sharply. He draws himself to his full height, towering rather imposingly over the slightly smaller Friday and much smaller Bill Gannon, as he regards them both with a slight aura of distaste. "This incident has garnered worldwide attention, and as you stated earlier to Officer Reed, the eyes of the world are upon us, watching very closely how we handle this investigation. The crux of the investigation falls into Central Division's jurisdiction, and that is the primary stationhouse where all the crucial evidence and information must be taken to in order to be processed. I would be very remiss in my duties as Captain of Central Division to allow two detectives from Parker Center to take possession of the rifles used by my SWAT team members, without having the weapons examined and test-fired first in our own ballistics department."

"But it's not like we're going to tamper with them or anything," Friday says irritably. "And the weapons were only used in field operations, not in bringing Burnside down."

"The matter is closed, Sergeant," Val tells him crisply and authoritively. "You and Officer Gannon may follow us to the station and pick up the weapons there, after they've been examined by our ballistics team." Val turns to Reed and I, ending the spat between him and Friday. "Gentlemen, are you ready to head back to the station?" he asks, coolly assessing us in his grey-eyed gaze. And his somewhat chilly scrutiny of us makes both of us squirm uncomfortably at the rather casual parking of our asses on the hood of his car. The two of us slide off, exchanging guilty glances like chastised children as we stand up. For while Val Moore is a good friend to both of us, he is, first and foremost, our commanding officer, and due the respect from us for that office.

"I thought you wanted us to change out of the SWAT coveralls before we get back to the station," Reed says. "So the media doesn't realize that we're the ones who got Burnside."

Val shakes his head. "Forget it. Let's just get back to the station." His voice holds an edge of weariness, and I suddenly realize that while Reed and I were experiencing hell out here in the Granite Court area, Val must have been experiencing his own hell back at the station, trying to hold down the fort and deal with the outside crises caused by the sniper situation. He pulls the keys to his car out of his pocket and reaches for the handle on the driver's side door. He nods curtly at Gannon and Friday. "If you two would like to follow us in, we'll be sure and get the weapons turned over to ballistics right away, so that you may have them as soon as possible." He opens the door and climbs in, leaving Friday and Gannon to retreat to their unmarked sedan.

"I call shotgun!" Reed says, smirking at me. He hurries around to the side of the car and opens the passenger door, climbing in next to Val.

I detect a tone of outright giddiness underneath his voice and I frown as I open the door to the backseat and shove our gear over in order to make room for myself. I climb in, the giddy note in Reed's voice striking an edge of unease within me for some reason. I think about it for a second, then I shake it off. Reed's probably just tired and emotionally wrung out right now, just like I am. As I close the door, Val starts the car up and waits for Friday and Gannon to back their car up enough in order to let him out.

Val expertly executes a three-point turn in the street, unable to flip a U-ie due to the nearby logistics truck and the somewhat narrow street, and he slowly pulls forward, stopping to see if Friday's car falls in behind us. He reaches down, grabbing the radio mike, keying it. "Dispatch, this is One-L-10 en route to the station with two," he says into it. He replaces the mike when dispatch acknowledges him.

Reed suddenly turns in his seat, craning his head and neck in order to look out the rear window. His intense scrutiny makes me twist around in my seat, too, in order to see what he finds so fascinating.

Val also notices Reed's interest in the scene behind us. "What are you doing, Jim?" he asks, slightly puzzled. He slows the car as we reach the roadblock at Morris and Palmtree, the faces of the two uniformed officers manning the post just pale ovals to me, the brims of their watchcaps casting deep shadows over their faces as they move the wooden sawhorse barricade in order to let us through. A small crowd of bystanders and reporters are kept behind the barricades, watching with avid interest as the black sedan passes them by. A few flashbulbs pop, photographers taking our pictures, just in case we turn out to be someone important.

"I'm taking one long last look at Hell before we leave it behind," Jim replies grimly. Then he turns back to the front of the vehicle and settles into his seat, offering nothing more in the way of explanation. He doesn't need to, and Val wisely asks no further questions.

I continue to stare out the back window, watching as the grey sedan of Sergeant Friday's slows at the roadblock, then eases through. The horrific scene on Palmtree begins to grow smaller as Val's car picks up speed, the concrete dust from the parking ramp a thinning haze across the klieg lights. The lights themselves cast bright beams into the sky, a domed aura that is much brighter than the lights of the surrounding area. All the scene lacks is a roving searchlight skipping across the sky, drawing attention far and wide to the tragedy that has happened there. I keep watch until the car turns a corner, and all that I can see are the headlights of Friday's sedan as he keeps pace with Val. I turn back around and look out the front windshield, the passing streetlights glinting off of the glass, tickling across the red emergency light on the dashboard. When Val stops for a red light at an intersection, I glance out the window on my side, and see a small crowd of people, along with several members of the news media, gathered on the steps of a Baptist church. "What's up with that?" I ask Val, pointing.

"That's where the relatives of the deceased have been brought to," Val tells me, his eyes meeting mine briefly in the rearview mirror.

"What's gonna happen to them?" Reed asks, turning his head and looking out the passenger side window at the small crowd.

"Homicide's out in the field now taking Polaroids of the deceased. They'll bring the snapshots here to the church to get a preliminary ID from the relatives gathered here," Val tells him. "Then, once the bodies are removed from the scene and taken to the morgue, they'll be asked to go there for a final identification of their loved one."

"Oh," Reed says quietly. "Will they have help? I mean, will there be someone on hand to guide the relatives through the whole process, from identification of the bodies to gathering the information needed in order to release the bodies to the funeral homes?"

"The department's chaplain is on hand, along with several area clergymembers and some representatives from the local funeral homes," Val tells him. "They won't be forced to go through this whole process alone, Jim. There will be someone to guide them the whole way, helping them wherever they need it."

I study the small throng of people until Val pulls away from the stoplight. My mind returns me to that frantic woman in the triage area, desperate to find out news about her daughter and grandchildren in Granite Park, shrieking at me as she finally realized that they were not coming out of there alive. I feel her bitter anger wash over me once more and reflexively, my hand strays to my heart and I rub the area of my chest where she struck me with her fist, the blow landing on the bruise I received while trying to pull her daughter back to the Armadillo. The canvas fabric of the coveralls is harsh under my fingertips and I close my eyes, recalling the outrage of both women; first the daughter, angry that we'd left her dead children behind after rescuing her, and the mother, after learning that we failed to pull her loved ones safely from the park. I shiver slightly, once more feeling the daughter's body slam back into mine as Burnside's bullet pierced her heart, dropping her with a ragdoll swiftness to the green grass below our feet, the bullet lodging in my vest and coming oh-so-close to piercing my own heart…so close, in fact, I don't wish to think about it, lest I be reminded once more of my own mortality. I lower my head, the inner demons inside my brain chastising me for failing to keep that woman safe. You shoulda made sure she was gonna stay put in the rig, Pete…they whisper softly. You shoulda realized that she wasn't about to let you guys leave her kids behind, dead or not, and you shoulda made sure that either you, Reed, or Gage kept ahold of her, keeping her from leaping out of the back of the rig and going back for her kids. Why didn't you think of that, Pete? Her murder is as much your fault as it is Burnside's. If you hadn't of been stupid and let her escape, she never woulda been in Burnside's sights in the first place. You might not have fired the gun that killed her, but your inattentiveness caused her death, just as much as the bullet did.

"You okay back there, Pete?" Val asks, concern tinging his voice.

"Huh?" I ask as I'm snapped out of my reverie, opening my eyes. I catch the curious glance Reed gives me over the back of the seat, and the frown Val has as he looks at me in the mirror. "Yeah, I'm fine, Val," I tell him. "I'm just sore where the bullet hit my vest and bruised my chest, that's all." I lean forward, resting my forearms on the back of the front seat. "Hey," I say to Val. "Just so you know, the rifle that jammed on Reed up on the roof was the same one that jammed on me out in the field."

Val turns his head slightly, never taking his eyes off of the road. "Oh?" he asks. "How did that happen?"

"I'm not sure why it jammed on me in the field," I say. "But Reed must have grabbed my rifle up instead of his, when he went after Burnside."

"I'll be sure and let Ballistics know that," Val tells me, and I settle back into my seat once more. "They'll want to run some tests to find out why it jammed in the first place."

Reed drums his fingers on the doorframe as he stares out at the passing night scenery. "Out here in the real world, outside of the Granite Court area…what happened there seems so far away, you know?" he murmurs, sounding slightly dreamy. "It's like that scene was set in a completely different universe or something. It's unreal, like a dream or something."

"You mean a nightmare," I tell him. "Not a dream. Dreams are supposed to be good, but that back there was far from being good, Reed."

"Yes, I suppose it probably does seem like that," Val says, glancing over at him with a thoughtful expression. He clears his throat. "Before we get to the station, I think I should warn you two of a few things. First of all, I've told you that the media is camped outside the station. We've been able to move them back across the street from the front and rear entrances, but they are there, hoping to be the first to grab interviews with the people involved in the shooting. Second of all, the uninjured survivors pulled out of the park have been brought to the station in order to give their statements to the detectives. That includes some of the preschool children you two pulled out of there. The station is a bit of a madhouse inside."

"You mean those poor kids are being made to give statements to the dicks?" Reed asks, incredulous. "How awful! Haven't those little ones been through enough already?"

Val sighs. "Like it or not, they ARE witnesses to a beastly crime, and it's imperative that they give their version of events to the detectives, in order to piece together what happened out there."

"I'm surprised," I remark. "Those kids were so frightened out there, I'd be amazed if the dicks can get much out of them."

"They've got to at least try, Pete," Val tells me. "In any case, the parents of the children have been brought to the station in order to sit with them during the interviews, so hopefully they won't be further traumatized."

"Like that isn't going to happen anyway, whether their parents are there or not," Jim says, his voice irritable. "Having to recount the worst couple of hours in their young lives to calloused homicide dicks."

"Jim, it's not going to do you any good to get angry at the detectives," Val tells him. "They're just doing their jobs, you know." Val taps the steering wheel with his finger. "Also, the feds have been called in to assist in the investigation."

I frown. "I thought we were handling it in-house," I tell him.

"We are," Val tells me. "The majority of the investigation is our baby. But, as big of a crime scene as this whole incident has turned out to be, Chief Davis felt it prudent to call in the FBI and the ATF to assist us. It can't hurt, Pete," he tells me.

"It also can't help, either," I tell him dryly. "The fibbies aren't exactly known for their tact and grace, Val, not to mention their intelligence."

"If you're thinking of the Murdock case, Pete, I'd advise you to let it go," Val tells me, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

Reed turns in his seat to look at me. "What was the Murdock case, Pete?" he asks with curiosity. "I don't remember that."

"It was before your time, kid," I tell him. "It was a kidnap-murder case we worked back in…"

"It was a case best left forgotten," Val interrupts, giving me a warning glare. "Pete felt that the feds didn't handle the case like they should have, and they overlooked several clues that could have helped us catch the kidnapper before he killed his victim."

"Yeah," I say, meeting Val's eyes in the mirror with a clear challenge. "Remind me to tell you about it someday, Jim. It's utterly fascinating, not to mention highly entertaining, in how the feds screwed up big-time." I load my voice with icy sarcasm.

"Pete," Val warns once more. "It's water under the bridge. And the agents that worked that case were either reassigned or fired by J. Edgar Hoover himself. The agents working this case are completely different from the ones who worked the Murdock case."

"Okay, so they're different," I tell him. "So, what's to keep them from stepping in and hijacking THIS case right out from under us, like they did with the Murdock deal? You know, they can claim that this case will fall into the realm of federal jurisdictional boundaries and shut us out completely."

"They're not going to do that," Val assures me, but he doesn't sound like he really believes that himself. "They're only assisting with the investigation at our request. We're still spearheading it, not them." He shoots me a meaningful look in the rearview mirror. "In any case, it is important that the two of you fully cooperate with them."

"Hey, wait a sec," I say, leaning forward once more. "Why do WE have to cooperate with THEM, if the LAPD is the one leading the investigation?"

"They will likely wish to interview the two of you," Val tells us. "For their own records of the case."

"I already gave my statement and version of events to Friday and Gannon," I tell Val somewhat sharply. "I'm not interested in reliving it once more for them, Val."

"Pete, you know as well as I do that a crime of this scope and magnitude must be thoroughly investigated," Val tells me, his own voice sharp. "I expect you and Jim to cooperate with them completely, without any hesitation or argument." When I open my mouth to say more, Val cuts me off with a crisp wave of his hand. "That's it," he snaps. "I don't wish to hear anymore about it, Malloy. The discussion into this matter is closed."

I settle back into my seat with a huff, arms folded across my chest, as I glare narrow-eyed at the back of Val's head.

Reed clears his throat. "Any idea on how the injured are doing at the area hospitals?" he asks, changing the subject.

Val hesitates a moment before he speaks, as if he's uneasy with the question. "Well, the last I'd heard before I left the station to come out to the scene, two of the preschool children had died once they got them into the ER. The rest of the wounded are listed in anywhere from critical to good condition, depending on their injuries. The next twenty-four hours will be the deciding factor in who lives and who dies from their wounds. We hope to have an updated number as far as the injuries and deaths in time for the news conferences tomorrow," he tells us.

"You mean there's going to be more than one news conference?" I ask from the backseat. "Why?"

"Yeah," Val says. "In fact, there's going to be one tonight from out of City Hall. Mayor Bradley and Chief Davis will be speaking to the press. Then tomorrow morning, another conference is scheduled, with official statements from the command staff involved and hospital officials. Then, the one later on in the morning will focus primarily on you and Reed, along with John Gage."

"Why us?" Reed asks. "Why can't they be happy with the statements issued in the first conference tomorrow morning?"

"You three were the ones who rode into battle this afternoon, and ultimately, you and Pete were the two who brought an end to Burnside's reign of terror," Val tells him. "The press and the public will be interested in meeting the men who acted so bravely today, saving countless lives during a sniper's siege, and acting upon yourselves to end Burnside's spree."

"Well," Reed says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You know, I've gotta tell you, I've got a bit of a problem with the news conference involving us, Val." He flicks his eyes over to Val for a moment, then he stares out the window once more, shifting uneasily in his seat.

"What kind of problem?" Val asks, his hands tightening imperceptibly on the steering wheel.

"I don't want to do it," Reed tells him simply. He turns to Val, his gaze daring Val to deny him.

Val is quiet a moment, eyes on the road. "Well, I can understand that, Jim," he begins hesitantly. "But you can't forego it. It has to be done."

"Why?" Reed asks.

"The public will be curious to meet the men who got the LA sniper," Val says. "With such heroic acts that you, Pete, and John Gage performed out there today, comes the price of fame and glory."

"But at what cost to our sanity, to our integrity?" Reed asks, voice rising slightly. "Pete and Johnny and I, we were only doing our jobs out there, Val, and that's all. We acted the way we are trained to act, and the fact that we're being considered heroes for just doing our duties as policemen, doesn't set well with me. And I'm pretty sure the three of us weren't even thinking of fame and glory while we were fighting out in Hell."

Val turns to Jim, a curious expression on his face. "That's the second time you've referred to this incident as Hell, Jim. Why is that?"

"Because that's what it was," Jim says, shrugging. "Sheer hell. Seeing all those frightened and wounded kids and adults, the dead lying on the grass out there, always wondering if we were gonna make it out alive each of those trips." Reed sighs heavily, shaking his head. "I don't wanna do the press conference, Val, I'm tellin' you. I don't wanna do it."

"You have to, Jim. There's no way out of it," Val tells him, sounding sympathetic. "I'm sorry, but it was a direct request from Mayor Bradley himself. He wants the world to know the men who brought down Charles Burnside." He give Jim a reassuring smile. "But trust me, in a few days, this will all blow over. Your names will be forgotten rather quickly, I'm afraid. After all, who remembers the men who got Charles Whitman and Mark Essex? In a couple of weeks or so, you and Pete will be completely forgotten in the pursuit of the next big story that captures the public's imagination."

"That's nice to know," Reed says, his tone sarcastic. "In the meantime, Pete and I are…"

"Pete and you will be hailed as heroes," Val interrupts, holding his hand up. "I'd advise the two of you to bask on the laurels while you can, for fame is fleeting, at best. Your fifteen minutes of it will be up in no time at all, and the two of you will soon be ancient history."

"But I don't want fame or glory, Val," Reed protests plaintively. "I just want to keep my life as normal as possible, without any fuss. I just want to be Jim Reed, that's all. Is that too much to ask?"

"I'm sorry, Jim," Val says, glancing over at him once more, a glimmer of sadness in his eyes as if he is aware of the cost of fame for Reed and I. "Truly I am."

"Are you, Val?" Reed asks wearily. "Are you really?"

"Jim, those of us on the command staff will be facing our own news conference first thing in the morning," Val tells him. "Sergeant MacDonald will be there, along with Sergeant Miller, County Fire Chief Houts, Sheriff Pitchess, Chief Davis, and myself. There will also be officials from the two hospitals the victims were taken to, Rampart and Central Receiving. We are being made available to answer questions from the press regarding this situation."

"Sounds to me like it's turning into a gen-yoo-wine three-ring circus," I remark dryly. "What's next? Governor Brown arriving to give us proclamations declaring Reed, Gage, and I heroes for a day, giving us the keys to the city, big shiny medals on blue satin ribbons, and a hearty handshake and slap on the back for a job well done?"

Val's eyes narrow as he regards me in the mirror. "I fail to find your sarcasm entertaining, Malloy," he tells me tightly. "I'm not sure what the Governor's plans are, but there is word that he will be here sometime within the next day or so, as a show of sorrow and respect for the dead, and support for the survivors."

"Oh, how nice and touching," I say sarcastically. "Just what the dead, the wounded, and the survivors need. A politician's deepest sympathy and heartfelt sorrow. How lovely that will look come re-election time."

Val stares at me, slightly shocked at my gubernatorial blaspheme. "Pete!" he snaps. "You shouldn't speak of the Governor that way."

"Why not?" Reed asks. "It's true, isn't it? Whenever there's been a horrific tragedy, the politicos step in, with all their gladhanding and copious fake weeping, just to boost their public image. After all, what better image to portray to the voting public in times of crisis, than that of the ordinary man who shared in their sorrow during a tragic time?" Reed twists in his seat to look back at me. "Am I right, Pete?" he asks, a bitter grin on his face.

I nod. "Damn straight, Jim," I tell him, matching his bitter grin with one of my own.

Val glances at the two of us, an expression of surprise and dismay written across his face. "I don't know what's gotten into the two of you," he says, shaking his head. "I honestly don't." He turns his attention back to the road.

"I'll tell you what's gotten into us, Val," Reed says, his tone pure acid. "Charlie Burnside." He barks out a short laugh, utterly devoid of any humor, and stares out the passenger side window. "Burnside's what's gotten into us," he mutters, then he falls quiet.

I lean my head back, watching as the flicker of passing streetlamps skim across the grey interior of Val's car. I close my eyes, drifting on the muted squawking tones of the radio. I stretch my hand out, my fingers grazing the cool metal of a badge pinned to dacron, and I rub my fingertips across the bumpy surface, softly tracing the raised emblem of City Hall, the engraved letters spelling out "Policeman" across a smooth banner at the top of the shield, the words "Los Angeles Police" close to the bottom of the shield. I hesitate a moment, making a mental bet with myself that if I rub my thumb across the number only once, I can figure out whose badge it is, mine or Reed's. Eyes still shut, I lightly stroke my thumb across the stamped numbers just once, then I close my fingers around the metal oval of the shield, allowing myself a small smile as I win the bet with myself. The badge warms under my touch, and I grasp it tightly for a moment, then release it, my fingers seeking out the shooting brass that is pinned nearby. I glide my index finger across the circular medallion, then over the small loops chaining the medallion to the double bars above it. I grip the medallion between my thumb and forefinger, the emblem on the Distinguished Expert medal digging into my fingertips, then I let it go, the medallion softly falling back to the dacron uniform, the warmth transferred to it from my touch already cooling. I open my eyes to see Val studying me in the rearview mirror, his expression that of curiosity mixed with concern; then he returns his gaze to the road ahead, while I stare out at the passing night scenery, my fingers still absently stroking the numbers "744" on my badge. I sigh quietly to myself, knowing that it will take more than a piece of hammered metal to protect Reed and I from what lies ahead of us. In fact, I'm not sure what WILL protect us from what lies ahead, and that is truly a frightening thought.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Val is right, the media is camped out in front of the police station, along with a throng of the curious that always tend to gather at such scenes, just so they can boast that they were there. The crowd is contained to the area across the street from the stationhouse, kept out of the roadway by sawhorse barricades and uniformed police officers patrolling the perimters with rabid intensity. As the car silently glides past, flashbulbs pop again and video cameras are raised, the bright lights swinging across the side of the car, but the reporters' images of us is blurry at best. The curious watch with neck-craning interest as Val pulls into the driveway, followed by the grey sedan of Sergeant Friday and Bill Gannon. Val parks the car in back of the station, and Friday's car pulls in next to us.

Val shuts the car off and turns to us. "Look, I'm really sorry all of this is happening," he tells us. "Truly, I am. None of us wishes to be thrust into the public spotlight under these circumstances. But, what's happened here in the city this afternoon is a horrible crime, not to mention an awful tragedy, and the people…well, the people must be able to take some bit of good away from this event. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I do," Jim says tightly. "And you can save it, Val. Neither of us needs to hear a pep talk right now. All I want to do is get out of these damned coveralls and go home to my family, if that's alright with you."

Val stares at him, slightly stung, and then he nods. "Yes, that's fine. The two of you are on administrative leave until further notice."

"With pay, I hope," I say, beginning to gather up my gear. I toss the uniform tie and silver tie clasp into my watchcap, draping the shirt over my arm.

"Of course," Val says. "The city would be highly remiss if it didn't compensate its heroes for their time off during this crucial investigation."

"Will you quit calling us heroes, Val?" Reed asks, climbing out of the car. He opens the back passenger side door and begins to gather his own gear. "Pete and I were just doing our jobs, that's all."

Val regards him over the back of the front seat for a moment, then wordlessly he opens his door and gets out, going around to the back of the vehicle. There's a thunk as he opens the trunk lid, and I can hear him speaking to Sergeant Friday and Bill Gannon.

"Don't get too mouthy with Val, Jim," I warn softly. "He's the Captain, and don't you forget that."

Reed looks at me, a slight flush of anger rising to his face. "I'm not getting mouthy, Pete, I'm just getting tired of all this shit, you know?"

"If you're tired of it now, whaddaya gonna do when it gets worse over the coming days?" I ask, getting out of the car.

"I'll deal with it," he tells me sharply, slamming the car door.

"Yeah, like you're dealing with it now," I sigh, slamming my own door shut. I go around to the rear of the car, where Val is taking the two rifles we used today out of the trunk.

Jim glares at me. "Hey, you're one to talk, Pete, about handling things," he tells me irritably.

"We'll get these down to Ballistics right away, Sergeant Friday," Val tells Friday. "We'll put a rush on them, so that you may have them yet tonight."

I reach in to grab my helmet case and briefcase, grappling with holding onto my watchcap, gunbelt, shirt, shoes, and nightstick. Reed drops his nightstick with a wooden clatter, and he sighs in frustration as he bends down to pick it up from the ground.

Bill Gannon sees our dilemma and steps in, grabbing the rest of our gear from the trunk. "Here," he offers helpfully. "Let me help you guys. You have your hands full as it is."

"Thanks," I tell him gratefully, as Val slams the trunk lid shut, the rifles clutched in his hand.

Sergeant Friday gives his partner a disgusted look for helping us, then he turns to Val. "These two men understand that they are on leave, correct?" he asks.

"They've been apprised of that, yes," Val tells him.

"And they realize that they are not to speak to any members of the media, outside of those during the press conference tomorrow, correct?" Friday asks.

"Look, we know the drill," I tell him. "We've been in cases like this before, Sergeant, albeit nothing quite as large as this case is. But Reed and I know that we're not to give any statements to any members of the press. We also know that we're not supposed to discuss the details of this case with anyone other than the investigators, and that includes our families." I hesitate. "Especially our families," I add.

"Officer Reed and Officer Malloy are experienced in matters such as this," Val informs Friday. "Believe me, they will not utter a peep about this case to anyone."

"They'd better not," Friday warns. "There's certain details we don't want leaked out to the press just yet."

"Then cancel the news conference tomorrow," Reed suggests. "If you don't want certain details released to the public."

"We can't do that," Friday says. "Besides, you will be amply coached tomorrow morning prior to the press conference on what you will be expected to say, should the Mayor decide to open the conference to questions."

Reed exchanges a glance with me. "So…we're going to be told what to say tomorrow?" he asks warily. "I'm not sure I like that, Sergeant. I'm used to speaking my mind, and so is Pete. I'm not comfortable with someone putting words in my mouth, telling me what I can and can't say. "

"This is one time you'll have to follow protocol," Friday says. Then he smirks, turning to me. "Oh yes, I forget. You seem to have a problem with following protocol, don't you, Officer Malloy?" he asks snarkily.

Anger flashes within me, and I glare at the good Sergeant. "I don't have a problem following protocol, Sergeant, but I do have a problem with..." I begin, but Val cuts me off with a warning look, making me hold my tongue.

"The two of you need to be here at the station by ten a.m. sharp, in order to be briefed prior to the press conference at eleven. From here, you'll be taken to City Hall, where the conference is being held," Val tells us. "You also need to be in your full dress blues, too." He turns and begins walking to the door of the station, as we follow behind.

"Why?" I ask. "What's wrong with the two of us just wearing our regular uniforms?"

"You are expected to project a certain image to the public," Val informs us, his tone clipped and precise. "Chief Davis feels it would be only proper if the two of you wear your dress blues." Val opens the door, holding it to allow the rest of us to enter.

"Oh, sure, he's one to talk," I snip. "He'll be outfitted in a suit and tie."

"It's dress blues or you draw suspension," Val warns sharply. "Without pay." He nods to Bill Gannon. "Just set their gear inside of the locker room door when we pass it," he tells him. "Pete and Jim can grab it from there, I'm sure." Val turns and begins to stride down the crowded hallway, the rest of us bobbing along in his wake like ducklings following their mama. People glance up with startled looks and quickly make way for him, seeing Val's purposeful stride and the two rifles clutched in his hands. Curious eyes and silence follows us as Val stops outside the locker room door, opening it a bit to allow Bill Gannon to tuck our helmet bags and briefcases just inside the door. "Gentlemen, I will see you tomorrow at ten a.m.," he tells Reed and I with a crisp nod of his head, then he turns and continues down the hallway to the Ballistics division, followed by Friday and Gannon. The conversation in the hallway resumes to its previous level of a dull roar, as people bustle by in a hurry, and it seems like every freaking telephone in the station is ringing constantly, the shrill tones adding to the already overwhelming hustle and noise.

"Christ, he wasn't kidding when he said this was a madhouse," Reed murmurs to me, his hand on the locker room door.

"Oh, Officers!" a woman calls to us. "Officers, please!" The two of us turn to see a young woman hurrying towards us, waving her hand frantically at us as she pushes her way past the people clustered in the hall. She reaches us, her brown eyes wide with nervousness as she looks at us. "Do you two recognize me?" she asks timidly, smoothing her blonde hair down with a trembling hand.

"Yes," I say, recognizing her as the young teacher with the preschool kids, the one who was so terrified, she sat huddled up in the back of the Armadillo, without saying a word. "You were with the preschool kids."

"I was also the one who slapped you and spit on you, Officer," she says, putting a hand on my arm as her face reddens with shame. "I just wanted to tell you how sorry I was for doing that. I'm not normally like that, believe me."

"It's okay," I assure her, smiling a little. "It was a natural reaction to the stress of the incident, and it's perfectly understandable. No harm done."

"How are the kids holding up?" Reed asks.

She glances over her shoulder at one of the offices that has the door to it closed, then she looks back at us. "They're in there with their parents and the detectives," she says, pointing to the closed door. "I think the detectives are about done interviewing them, but I'm not sure." Her eyes land on a splotch of blood and grey brain matter on Jim's coveralls, and she blanches, her hand going to her mouth as she realizes what it is. "I'm so sorry," she murmurs, backing away as if we have the plague. "But I really must get back to…" her voice trails off as she turns and hurries back down the hallway, quickly ducking into the ladies' room.

"What was wrong with…" Jim begins, but looks down as I point out the splotch to him. "Oh," he says, grimacing and jerking his head in disgust. He turns and shoves the locker room door open with a hard smack of his hand.

The locker room is deserted when we enter, and I head straight for my locker, dumping my gear on the bench. Reed does the same, and as I sit down on the wooden bench, bending over and beginning to work on untying my sodden boot laces, he goes over to the door and retrieves our helmet bags and briefcases, setting them on the floor between us. Dirty water squishes out from the heavy boot laces, and I find I have to work a bit hard at undoing the soaked and swollen knots. "God," I mutter, finally getting one set of laces done and tugging the water-logged boot off of my foot. "I wonder if my feet will ever dry out."

Reed doesn't even bother trying to undo the laces; instead, he fishes his pocket knife out of his uniform pants pocket underneath the coveralls, and sits down on the bench, opening the knife and commencing hacking at the boot laces with an intensity. "I don't care if my feet dry out," he mumbles. "I just want to get the hell out of this outfit with the gore on it." He hands me the pocketknife once he cuts through the laces. "Here, use that, it'll work faster."

"Thanks," I tell him, taking the knife and hacking at the laces on the other boot. They finally break for me and I close the little silver knife, handing it back to him. I tug the second boot off, along with the soaked socks and I wriggle my waterlogged toes, happy to have my feet free at last from the squooshy boots. I stand up, nudging the boots aside with a foot, then I tug at the coveralls, slipping my arms out of the sleeves, dust rising from the creases in the coveralls with my movements. The co-mingled smell of salty sweat, coppery blood, and peppery gunpowder clings to them like a harsh miasma. I shimmy them down past my waist, then I sit back down on the wooden bench, tugging the wet legs of the coveralls off. I quickly run my hands through the deep cargo pockets, making sure I've taken everything out of them, then I wad them up in a tight ball. I stand up, taking them, along with the boots and socks over to the trash barrel, tossing them in with a thump. I return to the bench, walking across the cool polished cement floor in my bare feet, noticing that Jim has stripped off his own coveralls and is holding them in his hands, a faraway expression on his face as he stares at them, the splotch of blood and brain tissue right in front of his unseeing eyes. "Hey, you okay?" I ask, sitting back down.

He jumps a little, as if he's forgotten I am there. "What?" he asks, looking over at me. "Yeah, I'm fine, Pete. I'm just dandy." He frowns, gesturing to the outfit. "I didn't realize I had gotten that on myself," he says, making a face of disgust. "I knew it was on the vest, but not the coveralls."

"How could you have known something like that?" I ask him, grabbing a towel out of my locker and drying my feet and legs with it. I could take a shower here at the station, washing the smell of dust and fear and sweat off of me, but I'd rather wait until I get home, where I can spend as long as I want under the showerhead, or at least until the hot water runs out. I glance over at Jim, who is still staring at the splotch of gore. "It's only a little spot of it," I tell him. "It's not that noticeable."

"That preschool teacher noticed it," he tells me grimly.

"Only because we're in the bright lights of the station," I tell him.

He stands up, grabbing his own boots up from the floor, and carries them, along with the coveralls, over to the trash barrel where he tosses them in atop mine. He hestiates, resting his hands on the rim of the barrel, and I watch him with slight concern, wondering if he's about to be sick. He shakes himself, much like a dog would, and he reaches into the pocket of his uniform pants, pulling out a small handful of change. He looks over his shoulder at me. "I'm gonna call home and let Jean know I'm okay," he says. "When I get done, you need to call Judy and let her know you're okay, too, Pete." He heads over to the pay phone in the corner of the locker room, disappearing behind a row of lockers. I hear the clink and rattle of a coin dropping into the phone's coin box, then he starts dialing, the dial counting out rapid clicks as he calls home. "Hey Jean, it's me," he says a moment later. "I just thought I'd call and let you know I'm okay…" His voice trails off as Jean takes over her end of the conversation. "Yes, I'm back at the station with Pete," he says. "And I…" His voice trails off again.

I fish the key to my locker out of my pants pocket, slipping the little silver key into the lock and opening it with a click. I turn around, grabbing up my nightstick, tucking it into a corner of my locker, then I pick up my helmet bag and briefcase, tucking them in on the bottom of the locker. I take my service revolver from the holster on the gunbelt, laying it in on one of the top shelves of the locker. I empty out the pockets of my uniform pants, unbuckling the belt and tugging it free from the loops. I strip the pants off, soaked to the knees with water from the inside of the Granite Court Building, and I lay the pants on the bench, intending to toss them in the chute for the drycleaner. Pulling my gym bag from the locker, I unzip it, slipping my black uniform oxfords and silver-buckled belt inside. As I coil the leather gunbelt up and tuck it inside the bag also, I catch Jim's response to his wife.

"Jean, I told you I'm fine," he says in exasperation. "Both Pete and I are okay." He hesitates as he listens to her speaking once more. "Yes, I know it was all over the news, Captain Moore has told us that," he tells her. He sighs dramatically. "Look, Jean, I know it was dangerous, but Pete and I had a job to do. It wasn't like we could ignore the people that needed help in that park. It was a very desperate situation, and lives were on the line. Pete and I just happened to be…"

Trying vainly to ignore Reed's conversation with Jean, I pull my chinos from the hanger in my locker and step into them, transferring my wallet, loose change, and car keys into the pockets. I take my blue pinstriped oxford shirt from the same hanger the chinos were on and slip into it, tucking the tails into my pants.

"I know my job is a big issue, and I know it worries you greatly, but there's nothing I can do about it, Jean," he tells her, his voice rising. "I'm certainly not quitting the force just because of what happened out there today, if that's what you're thinking." He falls silent once more, and I swear that I can nearly hear Jean's squawking voice coming tinnily out of the phone receiver, even from my spot in the locker room. "No, I really don't know WHAT you're thinking anymore, Jean," he snaps. "I don't even know what I'M thinking anymore. Except for this morning, and we BOTH know what's on your mind right now…" His voice trails off again.

Wondering despite myself at what Jim's rather cryptic comment to Jean means, I take a clean pair of socks out of the locker and sit down, pulling them on. I slide my feet into my brown loafers and stand up, smoothing my clothes down with my hands.

"Okay, well let me ask you this, Jean," he says heatedly. "Do you want me to come home tonight or not? Because if you don't, I'll have to either get a hotel room or crash on Pete's couch." He sighs. "No, I'm not being snippy with you, I just need to know where I'm going to be sleeping tonight…either at home or somewhere else."

I flinch a little at the idea of Jim crashing on my couch tonight. Yes, he's my best friend and I love him like he's my brother, but I was actually hoping to have tonight by myself, in order to decompress and destress from today's horrific events. I shake my head, mentally trying to telepath to Jean to take her husband, at least for tonight.

"Yes, I know it is," he says. "But I…" his voice stops as Jean cuts him off again, and I hold my breath, waiting to hear the answer. "Fine," he snaps. "We'll discuss this when I get home." He slams the phone receiver down in the cradle with a bang, and he stalks around the corner of the lockers, glowering. "Goddamnit," he mutters. "Just what I really need right now. Another lecture from my wife on the dangers of my job." He unlocks his locker, throwing the door open with a metallic clang. He nods at me. "You can call Judy now, Pete, and let her know you're okay. She's probably worried sick about you."

I quail a little at the thought of speaking to Judy, and I shake my head. "I think I'll wait until I get home," I tell him. Judy's the last person I want to talk to right now, since if anything, she'll want me to pour my heart out to her in a meaninful discussion of today's events, and that's something I cannot get into, both pouring my heart out and meaningful discussions. I shouldn't feel that way, since Judy is my girlfriend and I love her, but it's a quirk in my personality that I can't quite overcome for some reason. And, truth be known, I sometimes wonder to myself if I even really love her, or if I'm just going through the motions because I'm sick of everyone making pointed little jokes and remarks about my inability to stay in a lasting relationship for longer than a few months, not to mention my longtime bachelorhood.

He frowns, looking at me. "Really, Pete, you should call her."

"I told you I'd wait until I get home, okay?" I tell him, slightly irritated.

He sighs, shaking his head at my idiotic stubbornness. "I don't get you, Pete, Judy's a good woman. You shouldn't treat her the way you do sometimes." He begins to change out of his uniform and into his civvies. "I'm surprised that your relationship has lasted this long," he says, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. "Given the fact that your attention span in the romance department is that of a hyperactive gerbil on uppers."

"Speaking of relationships, how's yours going?" I ask, trying to change the touchy subject of Judy and I. My voice sounds a bit snarkier than I intended, and it does not go unnoticed by Jim.

He scowls. "It's going just fine, Pete," he tells me sharply.

"Doesn't sound like it," I reply. I pick up my uniform shirt and begin removing the brass from it, unpinning the silver and gold badge, the silver nametag, and the shooting medallion. I'll take them home, along with the rest of my gear that will need to be polished up before tomorrow. Slipping them into an inner pocket inside the gym bag, I empty out the breast pockets of the shirt, taking out the little notebook and Miranda card, along with my pen. I put them in on the shelf of the locker, next to my service revolver.

"Okay, so maybe it's not," Jim says, stepping into his jeans. "We've just hit a rough patch, that's all."

"You've been hitting that rough patch for nearly a year now," I remark, then instantly regret it, as a look of pain washes across Jim's face. "Look, forget I said that," I tell him hastily. "I'm sorry. I need to remember to keep my big mouth shut."

"No, it's okay," he says quietly. "You're only speaking the cold, harsh truth, Pete." He pulls on his red sweater and sits down on the bench, starting to put his socks and sneakers on.

"You wanna talk about it?" I ask after a moment.

"No," he replies, his crisp tone putting an end to that conversation.

I study him for a second. "Well, if you ever wanna…" I begin.

"Thanks, I appreciate it, Pete, but no, I don't want to talk about it," he interrupts. "Not now, not ever."

I put my watchcap, the uniform tie and silver clasp still tucked within it, inside the gym bag, then I scan my locker for anything else I'll need to take home and shine up. "I don't like the idea of having to wear our dress blues to the press conference tomorrow," I say. "It's a pain in the ass."

"Yeah, I know," Jim says. "I don't know why they changed the protocol back to wearing dress blues for certain events." He reaches down, grabbing his own gym bag from the bottom of his locker, setting it on the bench next to him. He tucks his helmet bag and briefcase away, and begins to strip the brass off of his uniform shirt.

I take my dirty uniform over to the metal laundry chute, opening the door and tossing the pants and shirt inside, the buttons of the shirt rasping against the metal of the chute as the uniform slides down, landing into the cloth laundry bin with a soft hush. I return to my locker, checking Jim's progress on getting his gear together so that we can leave, and I see that he's poking along, brows furrowed in concentration as he unpins his badge from his uniform carefully. I have to wait for him, since I'm the one who must give him a ride home. I grab the leather holster that holds my off-duty weapon from the shelf in my locker and I clip it to my belt on my left side. I slip the off-duty .38 into the holster and take my tan windbreaker from the hook inside my locker, pulling it on. I make sure it's covering the .38 as I zip it up halfway, then I slam the locker door shut, relocking it with the key. Reed is still taking his time putting his gear away, so I wander over to the row of sinks and the long mirror that line one wall. I study my reflection, my face pale and grey, my hair dusted white with cement dust. I look like a redheaded version of Casper the Friendly Ghost.

I glance at my hands, seeing traces of blood still embedded within the whorls of my fingertips, so I turn on the taps, dabbling my hands in the lukewarm water, catching some soap from the wall dispenser so I can try to scrub some of the bloodstains from my hands. The water turns pinkish when I rinse the soap off, so I get some more, scrubbing harder at my fingertips and palms. Finally the water runs clear, and I bend my head down, cupping my hands and catching water in them, splashing the water onto my face to rid myself of the grit. The water is cool against my skin and I savor it, closing my eyes as it trickles down my temples and cheeks, dripping off the ends of my nose and my chin. I catch some more in my hands and I use it to rinse the chalky, gritty taste of dust out of my mouth. I roughly comb dampened fingers through my hair, loosening up the particles of grit that have settled there among the strands. Turning off the taps, I grab a handful of paper towels and dry my face, giving my reflection the once-over again, deciding that I'll at least pass for halfway decent-looking. Wadding the paper towels up, I toss them into the trash, silently congratulating myself as I make the shot easily, the wadded ball of towels landing in the trash barrel on the first throw. "Hey, you about ready?" I ask, coming back around the row of lockers to check on Reed's turtlish progress.

He's sitting there on the bench, silent and unmoving, eyes staring vacantly at his hands as he holds them out in front of him. "I've got blood on my hands," he says in an odd monotone. His gaze never leaves his palms.

The hollow tone to his voice sends a shiver down my spine. I've never heard Jim's voice sound so eerie and alien. I hesitate, studying him with a slight frown, then I speak. "Yeah, I know," I tell him. "I did, too. I just washed it off, and you should do the same, Jim."

He turns his head slowly, his eyes still vacant as he stares at me, and it dawns on me that the shock of today's events is finally hitting him. He holds his hands up in front of him, and I notice that they're shaking slightly. "Look, Pete, I've got blood on my hands," he repeats in that odd monotone. He frowns, looking at his palms. "I don't want blood on my hands. How do I get it off, Pete?" He looks at me with a quizzical expression on his face.

"Go wash them at the sink," I tell him once more, jerking my head in the direction of the sinks. "That's what I did, Jim." Concern rapidly wells up inside of me, and I'm not exactly sure what to do for him right now to bring him out of this state.

He blinks suddenly, as if just now realizing that I'm there. He stands up and walks slowly over to the row of sinks, his hunched-over stance and creaky gate that of an 80-year-old man instead of a kid in his late twenties. Leaning hard on one of the sinks, he studies his reflection in the mirror. "My hair looks grey," he says, peering at himself. "It makes me look old."

"It's from the concrete dust that was in the air back at the scene," I tell him, watching him carefully. "Use your fingers to brush some of it out." I point to the sink taps. "Jim, turn on the water and wash your hands," I tell him. "That will get rid of the blood on them, I promise."

He grips the sink tightly, closing his eyes, his fingers white-knuckled in their death-grasp on the porcelain. "Pete," he whispers, his voice sounding anguished. "I've got blood on my hands. I can't go home to Jean and Jimmy like this."

I approach him slowly, my hands out in front of me to show him that I mean him no harm, since I'm not sure how he's going to react. "Jim," I tell him gently. "Wash your hands in the water. That will take the blood off, trust me."

"Why today?" he rasps hoarsely, his eyes still tightly closed. He sways slightly, and I put out a hand to steady him.

"Why today what?" I ask him.

He opens his eyes, turning to look at me, sheer torturous anguish in his blue eyes. "Why today?" he asks sadly. "Why did it have to be today that I got blood on my hands?" He turns back to his reflection, staring at it in horror. "Why did Burnside choose today to do his deed? Why not tomorrow? Or the day after? Or the day after that? Why couldn't he pick a day that I wasn't on duty, and do it then?" He looks back at me, tears springing to his eyes. "Why today?" he whispers sorrowfully, as the tears begin to slide down his cheeks.

"I don't know, partner, I just don't know," I tell him softly, shaking my head. "We'll probably never know, either." I reach over and turn on the sink taps for him. "Now wash your hands, Jim, so we can go home, okay?" He doesn't respond, still clutching the sides of the sink in a tight grip, so after a moment, I realize that I must act for him and I gently take ahold of one of his wrists, pulling on it and trying to break his hold on the sink. He lets go of the side reluctantly, and I push his hand under the running water, after first making sure it's not too hot with my fingers. "Here," I tell him, reaching across him and tugging on his other wrist to get him to let go of the other side of the sink . "Get your hands wet, then scrub them with the soap," I explain. He just stands there, letting the water wash over his hands, mutely staring at them, his expression mournful. I realize that he's not going to do anything on his own so, sighing, I wet my own hands once more, pushing on the button to get soap from the dispenser, and I pick up his left hand, scraping the soap off of my palm onto his, then I grab his other hand, rubbing them together like I would a small child who is unable to wash his hands on his own. I thrust his hands under the water, rinsing them, then I repeat the process, as Jim stands next to me, placidly allowing me to wash the blood off of his palms and fingers. When the worst of the blood is washed off, I nudge him with my elbow. "Can you wash the dust off of your face, Jim? 'Cuz that's one thing I ain't doin' for you. Just bend your head down and splash some water on your face to get rid of the concrete dust, okay?" Nodding obediently, he bends his head to the sink, cupping his hands and splashing water onto his face. I step back, grabbing a handful of towels and drying my hands once more.

"Whattsamatter, your partner turn ee-jit on you, Malloy?" a voice calls jovially.

I whip around to see Ben Ryan standing there, grinning, his arms folded across his chest as he regards Reed and I with perverse delight. Ryan's been a thorn in my side for a couple of years now, having taken an instant dislike to me for some reason when he first got hired on in 1973. He enjoys mocking me, like Ed Wells, but while Ed's mocking is done largely in jest and has no real malice in it, Ryan's remarks carry the heavy weight of a bully's sarcasm and sharp derision. "Leave him alone, Ryan," I snap, unsure of how long Ryan's been standing there. "Reed's had a long day and he's a little bit in shock right now."

"Aww, so whaddaya gonna do, Malloy, take him home and tuck him into beddy-bye?" Ryan coos derisively. "Maybe give him a little kiss on the forehead, tell him it's all gonna be okay?" He smirks at me. "Maybe you should crawl under the covers with him and cuddle him, Malloy. I'm sure the two of you would just love that, wouldn't you? The two of you could just spend the night in each other's arms." He laughs heartily at his own wit, but since there's no one else in the locker room besides us, his joke goes unappreciated.

I stare at him for a moment, stunned at his implication that Jim Reed and I are lovers, then my anger explodes like fireworks, flaring up skyrocket-high inside of me at the clear insinuation. "Why you little smart-assed sonofabitch!" I snarl menacingly, starting towards him, my fists clenched in rage, my fingernails digging sharply into my palms. I can't wait to sink a fist right in the middle of his sneering face, wiping that evil smirk off with a hard blow of my hand, bloodying his nose for him. "I oughta kick the shit right outta you for even THINKING that of Reed and I!" My blood pounds wildly in my brain and I taste bitter rage on my tongue.

Behind me, still at the sinks, Jim suddenly comes to life as it dawns on him that I'm about to drop Ryan's ass. "Pete, no!" he yells, leaping forward and grabbing me by the arm and jerking me sharply back, causing me to lose my balance and stumble a bit. "Let it go!" he warns, shaking my arm hard, digging his fingers into my bicep. "Pick a fight with him and he'll cost you your job, and you don't want that!"

"Oh-ho," Ryan crows in delight. "So the other one steps in to save his partner's ass!" he chortles. He leans forward, as if imparting a secret to us. "I think I must have struck a nerve, boys! Tell me, which one of you is the dom and which one of you is the submissive?" He cackles gleefully, shaking his head. "Or do you take turns?"

"You goddamned motherfucker!" I yell, lunging wildly at him, my rage nearly blinding me in its red-veiled, ear-roaring intensity. I want Ryan's blood and I want it now. I want to see it spilled across the polished cement floor, as I kick the living shit out of Ryan, making him weep and beg for my mercy. And then I'll spit on him and kick him again, just to show him the mercy of Pete Malloy.

"Pete!" Jim yelps sharply in my ear, hauling me back once more by my arm. "Damn it, let it go! A jackass like Ryan isn't worth losing your job over!"

"I don't give a shit, let me at the bastard!" I growl, writhing madly, trying to break free from Reed's grasp. "I'll fucking kill him!"

He grabs me by the back of my shirt, twisting it in his fist, digging his elbow heavily into my spine, trying to force me to my senses. He jerks my arm up sharply behind me, pinning it to my back with his grip, using his weight to push hard against me like I'm an unruly prisoner, knocking me off-balance as he yanks me sideways, shoving me up against one of the sinks. "Ryan, get the hell outta here!" he spits angrily at Ryan. "Before I let go and let him have at you!"

"Hell," Ryan sneers. "Malloy's an old man. He couldn't kick my ass if his life depended on it." He hawks and casually spits into one of the nearby sinks.

"Do you want me to let go of him just so you can find out?" Reed snaps as he struggles with me. "Trust me, Ryan, Pete may be older than you, but I'd bet all the goddamned money in the world that he can kick your ass eight ways to Sunday and then some!" He jerks his head at the door. "Now get the hell out of here, before I release my hold on him and he pounds your sorry little ass into the ground!"

"Shee-it," Ryan drawls, still grinning. "Can't you boys take a joke?" He goes to the locker room door and opens it, turning to blow Reed and I a kiss. "You two have fun tonight, ya hear?" he chuckles, the door swinging shut on his laughter.

"Sonofabitch!" I rasp, twisting hard in Reed's grasp and lunging wildly at the door. "Damn it, leggo of me so I can go kill the bastard!"

"Not on your life!" Reed hisses, jerking me back. "I'm not gonna let you throw your career away on a stupid jackass like him!" Twisting my arm up even higher, he shoves me against the sink once more, driving me into it with a force that sends glints of pain shooting through my hip where I make contact with the sink. "Pete, quit fighting!" he orders sharply. "I don't wanna hafta hurt you!"

"Let go of me, damn it!" I snarl, snapping my head around and glaring at him over my shoulder. "Let go, I said!" I demand and he complies, his fist letting go of the tight clench of the back of my shirt, his hand dropping away from my arm. Absolutely furious with him for stopping my attack on Ryan, I whip around, drawing my fist back to punch him.

"Go ahead!" he growls, eyes flashing dangerously at me. "Hit me, Pete! But if you do, be advised I will drop you on your ass so fast your goddamned head will spin!"

Suddenly, I catch sight of myself in the mirror over the sinks, red-faced, disheveled, and panting, ready to strike my best friend and partner. Horrified, I quickly drop my hand by my side and turn away from him in abject shame. "I'm sorry," I hoarse out, guilt rapidly flooding into me. "I don't know what came over me, Jim."

He studies me for a moment with unforgiving eyes, then he sighs, shaking his head. "Forget it," he says wearily. "We're both still on edge over today's incident."

"Yeah, but I almost hit you," I say, utterly ashamed of myself. "That's completely unforgivable, Jim."

"It's also not the first time you've nearly hit me," he replies. "In fact, you HAVE hit me, if I remember right." He walks over to the bench, picking up his uniform and carrying it over to the laundry chute, tossing it down with a rattle of the chute door.

"Look, I'm really sorry, Jim," I apologize. I start to tuck my shirt back in, but then I decide it's a waste of time, so I forget it. Instead, I reach over and turn off the sink taps that Jim has left running by accident. "I had no right to go after you like that. You were only trying to keep me from beating the shit out of Ryan."

"Pete, just drop it," he says.

"Yeah, but I…"

"Pete, I said just drop it!" he snaps. He slams his locker door shut with a bang that rattles the whole row. Then he clenches his fist, suddenly drawing it back and striking at the metal door with such a fury, it leaves a dent in the door and makes the whole row of lockers jump. "Goddamnit!" he snarls, wincing and opening his fist up and wiggling his fingers. He shakes his hand in pain. "Why today? Why the fuck did all of this hafta happen on today, of all days?" He rubs his other hand across the injured one, checking to see if he's broken any bones.

I stare at him in shock, his sudden attack on the locker door startling me. "You asked me that a bit ago, and I told you I didn't know WHY Burnside chose today to carry out his killing spree." I frown, studying him with concern once more. "I don't understand what's so important about today anyway."

"Because," he says, sounding absolutely miserable. Sitting down on the wooden bench, he closes his eyes, shaking his head as he drops it into his hands. "You know what happened to me this morning before I left for work?" he asks, his voice a harsh whisper.

I sit down on the bench next to him, shaking my head. "No, what happened to you this morning, Jim?"

Eyes still closed, he rubs the area on his finger where his silver wedding band used to sit. "I don't know how to tell you this, Pete, since I am having a hard time telling it to myself." He opens his eyes, staring at the floor.

Worried, I study him. "Just tell me, Jim. Tell me what happened to you that's got you so upset. Maybe I can help you."

"No, I don't think you can, Pete," he tells me sadly. "Not this time, anyway." He bites his lip and he glances at me, then he studies his hands that are now free from blood. "Promise me you won't be shocked or angry, okay?"

I frown, puzzled as to what this great event is that happened to him this morning that is so awful, he is reluctant and squeamish to tell me. "I promise," I say. "Now tell me, because I can't read your mind, Jim. But I CAN see that whatever it is, it's bugging the hell outta you."

"Of course it would bug the hell outta me," he replies dully. Then he looks at me, his eyes meeting mine sorrowfully, and the next words out of his mouth shock me into speechlessness, despite my promise otherwise. "This morning, Jean told me she wants a divorce."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION.** In order to enhance the overall plot experience, creative liberties may have been intentionally taken with the real-life protocols depicted herein.

"Oh my God, Jim, I'm so sorry," I say, gently putting a hand on Reed's shoulder. He flinches at my touch, shying away from me, and I drop my hand. "Is there anything I can do?" I ask.

"No," he says in an utterly dead tone of voice. "There's nothing you can do, Pete." He rubs his hands together, staring unseeing at the row of green-painted lockers in front of us. "Jean's been in contact with a lawyer. She's gotten the preliminary divorce papers drawn up already. All she has to do is file them, and then the legal proceedings dissolving our marriage will be under way." He laughs humorlessly. "Dissolving our marriage, ha! It's all a buncha legal mumbo-jumbo…big fancy words for the simple act of heartbreak, of telling some poor slob like me that his wife no longer wants him and wishes to sever the bonds of holy matrimony." He winces, closing his eyes. "Christ, if I'd known back then what I know now…"

"Life's not a crystal ball, Jim, and you can't play that card. You couldn't have forseen this happening to you and Jean," I tell him. "And even if you did have the slightest inkling that your life would have ended up this way, I can pretty well bet that you and Jean would have still gotten married, simply because the two of you loved each other."

"At least we did back then," he says, adding the words that I left unspoken. He falls silent for a moment, biting his lip, then he speaks. "I don't understand how this how this even happened, Pete. I mean, how do you suddenly fall out of love with someone that you've been in love with since high school? How could Jean's feelings for me change, just like that?" He falls quiet for a moment again. "She says she doesn't think she loves me anymore, and to be honest, I'm not really sure I love her anymore, either, you know?" He runs a hand through his hair, rumpling it. "But how did that all change? When did that all change, Pete? At what exact moment in time did Jean's feelings for me start to turn to such dislike, that she no longer wishes to be my wife? And when did mine start to change towards her?"

"I don't know," I tell him. "I don't know exactly when everything started to nosedive for the two of you. And I don't think you want to hear the same line of crap from me that I'm sure you've heard from your marriage counselor…that people grow and change over time, and a lot of times, their feelings change, too…sometimes for good, other times for bad."

"Yeah, it's all a buncha bullshit, Pete," he tells me sourly. "It's soothing words designed to comfort you and make you feel like less of a loser when your wife finally decides that she's had it, that she wants out of the marriage." He looks at me, clear pain in his eyes, pain that I wish I could take away from him, or at least ease in some way. "And I can tell you firsthand, Pete, that it doesn't work…I don't feel any less like a loser than I did before…in fact, I feel like that even more so now." He rubs his palms across his jeans, picking at the threads with a fingernail. "I…I…I just don't know what to do, Pete, and that's what really scares me. I feel…I feel helpless, you know? Not to mention angry as hell and completely stunned. My whole world has been swept out from under me, and I don't know how to get it back, Pete. I just don't know how to get it back." He pauses. "And you know, I'm not sure that I really want it back, either, at least not the way it is now."

"Maybe you're not supposed to want it back, Jim," I tell him gently. "Maybe now is the time to step away from it all and reevaluate your life, take stock of things, you know?"

"So you're saying maybe this is a good thing, right?" he asks a bit sharply. "You're telling me that Jean wanting a divorce is a chance for me to rethink everything that I've ever known, right?"

"No, I'm not saying divorce for you is a good thing, I'm just saying maybe it's time for you to reconsider your life so far," I tell him matter-of-factly. "Maybe where this one chapter is ending, a new one is beginning, and maybe even for the better, who knows?" I shrug. "You know the old saying…when God closes a door, he opens a window. Maybe the door on your marriage has gone shut, but maybe the window on a new and better life for you has been opened in its place. You've got to at least consider that possibility, Jim."

He stares at me grimly. "That is the biggest fucking line of bullshit that I've heard…and especially coming from you, Pete. Do you expect me to believe that crap? That God has shut the door on one part of my life, yet opened a window to another?"

I hold my hand up. "I don't expect you to believe anything, Jim. I'm just saying…"

He sighs heavily. "Pete, please. If the advice from the marriage counselor hasn't worked, I'm sure that advice from you won't help either," he tells me. "And besides, how would you know what I'm going through right now anyway?"

"I've gone through it before, remember?" I ask him. "Back in the day? And I can assure you that I went through the same goddamned shit, and felt the exact same way you do now, and then some. So I know whereof you speak, my friend, because I've been down that same goddamned road. And it's not easy, either. And it's gonna get much worse before it gets better, too, trust me, so you'd better start galvanizing yourself now."

He stands up, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he begins to pace restlessly back and forth in front of the lockers. "I don't need platitudes and reassurances from you right now, Pete," he tells me angrily. He meets my gaze defiantly, blue eyes flashing angrily. "And I don't need your sympathy or your pity, either. So you can just save it, okay? I don't need to hear any of it at this point in time."

While I know that his anger isn't truly directed at me, but at his wife, it still doesn't stop his words from stinging just a little. "I'm just trying to help," I say quietly. "If you'd tell me what you need or want me to do, I can assure you, I'll move Heaven and earth trying to get it for you, whatever it is."

"Damn it, Pete, I don't know what in the hell I DO need right now," he snaps bitterly at me. "Except for Jean to tell me that this is all just a joke, that she's kidding me, that she really doesn't want a divorce after all."

I hesitate, clearing my throat before I speak. "But it sounds like she IS serious, Jim, especially if she's gone ahead and drawn up the preliminary paperwork," I tell him cautiously.

"Don't you think I know that?" he snarls, still pacing nervously like a caged jungle cat. "Jesus Christ, Pete, I've been torturing myself all day with Jean's request for a divorce, and I don't need YOU torturing me either, with comments like that!"

"I'm sorry," I tell. Chastised and stung, I fall silent, studying the polished cement floor of the locker room. I notice a small crack in the cement, and I run the toe of my shoe over it, tracing the small crack intently, wisely keeping my mouth shut in the face of Reed's anger.

"Look, Pete, I'm sorry, too," Reed sighs with dismay. "I didn't mean to snap at you. I know you're trying to be helpful to me and offer me a bit of solace right now, and I appreciate it, really I do." He leans against the row of lockers, arms folded across his chest as he looks down at me with regret and a bit of anger still in his eyes. "I'm just…I just don't know what to do, you know? I'm just beginning to process this whole mess and I need time to sort things out."

"I know it," I tell him. "You don't have to explain, Jim. I've been there, too, so I know…" I let my voice trail off, realizing that Reed doesn't need to hear me tell him that I know what he's going through right now, for each man only owns his own pain and suffering, not that of another. "It's rough for you, I get it. And you don't need to apologize, because I probably woulda snapped at me too, were the roles reversed."

"I hope to God, for your sake, that they never are," he observes. "Should you and Judy ever decide to get married."

"Yeah, well, that day is a long time off yet, if it ever DOES happen," I tell him cryptically. I offer no more by way of explanation, and Reed wisely does not ask. I glance up at him. "You got a place to stay for the time being?" I ask. "Because you know you can crash on my couch until you can get a place of your own lined up."

"We haven't worked out the housing situation yet," he says wearily, sitting back down on the wooden bench with a hard plunk of his ass. "For now, Jean's going to take Jimmy and go stay with her sister until we decide what to do with the house and the furniture."

"Speaking of my godson, how's he handling all of this?" I ask him quietly. "After all, he's old enough to know that something isn't right between his mom and his dad."

"I know it," he says in a miserable whisper. "Trust me, Pete, he knows things haven't been great between Jean and I for awhile now." He stops, falling silent and staring at his hands as he bites his lip once more. "Pete, what am I gonna do?" he asks, his voice hoarse with unshed emotion. "Soon, I'm not gonna be able to see him every day like I used to…what am I gonna do, Pete?"

"Have you two discussed temporary custody arrangements?" I ask him. "So that you might see him at least every other day or so?"

Mutely, he shakes his head, and tears begin to fill his eyes, spilling and rolling down his cheeks silently. "Pete, I love my son with all of my heart. I would do anything for him, even if it cost me my life. He's my whole reason for living, you know? And not…and to know that I'm not going to be able to see him every day…it kills me inside, Pete. It just rips me apart."

"I know it does," I tell him gently, unsure of how to comfort him. But I know that if Jean Reed were standing in front of me right now, I would quite willingly slap her silly…and I certainly do not believe in ever striking a woman, period…but if anyone needed it, she certainly does, for all of the heartwrenching anguish and emotional turmoil she is currently putting my best friend through right now. To see his sorrow and pain written so plainly on his face makes my heart ache for him, and I feel a stab of vicious hatred towards Jean right now.

"I mean, I love my son with all my heart," he continues sadly. "He's my whole world. My family has always been my life, you know? And I would die for my son, Pete, I truly would. Without hesitation or question. I would give him whatever he needed or wanted in a heartbeat."

"I know it," I tell him again. "You don't have to explain it to me, I can see it in your face every day, just how happy Jimmy makes you, and I can see it in your eyes just how much you love him, Jim."

"It seems…" He hesitates as his voice then breaks with sorrow, choking him. He coughs, clearing his throat. "It's always seemed that no matter what kind of bad shit we experienced out here in the field, whatever kind of horrific scene we had to deal with, I could handle it, as long as I knew that at the end of the shift, I was going home to my wife and son. Nothing bad or evil in the world could ever upset me or bother me, as long as I had the love of my wife and son to help me through the worst of it. And now it looks like I'm not going to have that source of comfort anymore, and I don't know what to do, Pete." He looks at me, eyes mutely pleading with me to give him a lie that he can believe in. "How am I going to get through this, Pete?" he asks.

"You'll find the strength to get through it somehow," I tell him, hoping that it's just true enough for him to find faith in. "I did when I got divorced from Evie. And you know you've got friends to lean on, Jim, whenever you need help. All you have to do is ask." I shrug. "Other than that, you just take it one day at a time, my friend. That's really about all you can do right now."

"I don't want anyone else knowing about this, Pete," he cautions me. "Not just yet, anyway."

"I wouldn't dream of telling anyone, and you know that," I assure him. "It's up to you to decide when the time is right to tell other people, not me."

"I know it," he sighs. "It's just…it's just so hard for me to accept right now. It felt like I'd been sucker-punched when Jean told me this morning that she'd already gone ahead and started the divorce paperwork a week ago. She didn't even ask me, she just told me she wanted a divorce, just like she was telling me she was going to go get groceries at the store or something."

The door to the locker room opens and Mac sticks his head in, interrupting us. "Good," he says, eyeing the two of us with a sharp frown. "You two are still here. I want to see you in my office, right now."

I glance at Jim, who is rubbing the tearstains off of his cheeks with the palms of his hands. "Can't it wait, Mac?" I ask hesitantly. "We were kind of in the middle of a discussion…"

"Now!" Mac bellows, his tone allowing for absolutely no argument. He stands in the doorway of the locker room, arms folded across his chest, glaring at us until the two of us get up from the bench, exchanging wary looks. Jim and I grab our gear bags, then we leave the locker room and slowly follow Mac down the still-bustling and noisy hallway to the Watch Commander's office. "Close the door," he orders me brusquely as we enter the Watch Commander's office. He goes around behind the desk but he doesn't sit down, instead, he puts his palms flat on the desk, leaning forward and watching us both with a narrow-eyed gaze of pure malcontentedness in his eyes.

Exchanging another uneasy look with Reed, I gently shut the door behind me, drowning out the noise in the hallway, or at least dampening it down to a dull roar. I know that whatever happens next, it is not going to be good at all, for I can sense that a major ass-chewing is forthcoming. Jim and I each carefully take a seat in the chairs across from the Watch Commander's desk, setting our gear bags on the floor next to us.

"Did I tell you two to sit down?" Mac snaps at us in a sharp tone, and the two of us immediately leap to our feet, quickly standing at fidgety attention before him.

I clear my throat, deciding to leap in first in order to hopefully smooth things over with him. "Look, Mac, if this is about this afternoon, I can ex…"

Mac interrupts me. "Can it, Malloy!" he barks at me. "I don't want to hear a single goddamned word out of EITHER of you unless I ask for it, got it?"

"Yes, sir," Reed mumbles, dropping his gaze guiltily to the floor as he shifts uneasily on his feet.

Mac turns his gaze on me and I meet his eyes with a small glimmer of defiance, as I straighten my posture to a rigid stance, drawing myself up to my full height. Assuredly, whatever ass-chewing we're about to get is likely deserved, but there is nothing that says I have to face my commanding officer with the attitude of a whipped puppy. "Yes, sir!" I snip out crisply, tucking my hands behind me at the small of my back, just like I used to when I was in the Army. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Reed take on the same stance, straightening up to his full height and tucking his hands behind him. We're the perfect picture of obedient police officers…except that we're really not, and therin lies the problem. Appearances can be deceiving, after all.

Mac studies us, anger clearly storming and tossing about in his tight-lipped glare, his expression as stern as a father whose teenaged daughter has come traipsing home at 2 o'clock in the morning, three hours past her curfew. "Do the two of you know what I've been doing since I've gotten back here to the station?" he asks in a low, deadly snarl, a tone of voice that I've only heard a few times in the years I've known Bill MacDonald. It's a clearly menacing tone that is designed to strike sheer terror into the heart of whomever it is being directed at, and truly, it should strike fear into my own heart, but it doesn't. Instead, I feel a flash of irritation with him, for using such a base tactic to try and make us cower in defeat.

"Playing tiddlywinks?" I ask evenly, keeping my own tone neutral. "Or perhaps Monopoly? Or maybe a rousing game of Red Rover?" Jim casts me a warning glance, but I choose to ignore it.

Mac recoils in anger from my snarky comment, drawing in on himself to focus his building rage. "Don't you try to be glib or funny with ME, Malloy," Mac snaps at me, his face reddening slightly with anger. "You're not going to jolly your way out of this one!" He folds his arms across his chest as he regards us, his blue eyes blazing in pure fury. "For your information, since I've returned to the station, I've had my ass handed to me on a platter from the District Commander."

"Funny, but it looks to me like your ass is still there," I tell him.

"SILENCE!" Mac roars, making both Reed and I flinch a bit. "I've gotten my goddamned ass royally chewed out for the way this whole incident was handled this afternoon! Hell, I've been reamed out so much, it's a wonder I can even walk! And I have the two of YOU to thank for it!"

"So now you're going to chew on us for a bit," I say, starting to do a slow burn. Surely not all of the chewing-out Mac received was because of us…but I have the abject feeling that we are about to be completely blamed for it anyway.

"You're goddamned right I am, Malloy," he tells me sharply. "And do you know WHY?"

"Because it's…" I start to say.

Mac pounds the top of his desk with a tight fist. "Malloy, just shut the fuck up!" he thunders at me, making me wince slightly in the face of his untold rage. "I don't want to hear another goddamned word from outta your mouth!" He regards us through narrowed blue eyes that are snapping fire as he begins to speak again, using that same low, deadly tone as before. "It seems that the Area Inspector had a few problems with the way I handled the case this afternoon. First, he wanted to know why the request for the Armadillo wasn't made by me, as acting Sergeant for this watch, but by my senior lead officer instead, who…astonishingly enough…does NOT have those official powers within his job description, yet apparently took it upon himself to overrule my authority and demand that the rig be brought out to the scene. THEN I was asked why I allowed an unauthorized person aboard the SWAT rig to assist in rescue operations once they were underway. Now it may sound STRANGE to the two of you, but the departmental hierarchy tends to FROWN upon having an unauthorized person aboard an official police department vehicle while in the midst of what is considered an emergency situation. AND, it was brought to my attention that DURING the rescue operations, that same unauthorized person acted in a manner that not only jeopardized his life, but also those of him around him. He even ADMITS to that in the statement he made to our department." Mac takes a moment, drawing in a deep breath as he launches into the final assault. "But the KICKER of the whole situation is not the above-mentioned problems the Area Inspector had with my performance this afternoon, it is the fact that two of my TOP men disobeyed DIRECT orders from me NOT to enter that Granite Court Building; instead, taking it upon themselves to flagrantly disregard my command and go after Charlie Burnside anyway. And those actions not only put their own lives in grave danger, but also those of the people around them, simply because it was unknown at that time if Burnside had other buildings rigged to explode." Mac regards us silently. "Now then, what do the two of you have to say in your defense?"

By now, my slow burn has turned into a raging forest fire at the implicit knowledge that I was right about my hunch just a moment ago, that Reed and I are going to be fully blamed for all of the Area Inspector's complaints against Mac. "Sergeant, as far as me overriding your authority and ordering that the Armadillo be brought to our location, I was only doing what I thought best for the situation out there," I tell him icily, trying hard to reign in my emotions. "I felt that the rig was needed there immediately, given the severity of the situation we were facing. People were trapped in that park, pinned down by sniper fire, and I knew that there was no way in hell that those people could be safely rescued without the assistance of the armored rig." I struggle to keep my tone even, but it's hard, for I feel the anger roiling inside of me like a storm-tossed ocean.

"Did you?" Mac growls at me. "Did you REALLY know that for certain, Malloy? Had you gotten an aerial view of the site before I arrived on the scene to see if there was any other way to get those people out without calling in the armored rig? Had you gotten a layout of the park or the surrounding area to see what possibilities existed and what other means might have been utilized for rescue operations? Did you know, for a fact, that there were enough people in that park that needed saving, so that we would have been suitably justified in the first place for bringing out a vehicle that had yet to be proven in the field?"

"That's a goddamned stupid question and you know it!" I snap at him, my anger bubbling over. "No matter whether there was one or a HUNDRED people in that park, we knew we had no other way of getting them out without calling in the Armadillo! And as far as the layout of the area, we were apprised of that shortly after our arrival on scene by the fire crew from Station 51, Sergeant. And from what we could see with our own eyes, and from what was being relayed to us via the paramedics pinned in next to their rescue squad by Burnside's gunfire, we knew right away that no other means of rescue existed." I angrily jab a finger at him. "Time was critical, Sergeant, and lives were on the line out there. Every minute we spent dicking around, trying to decide what to do, those lives were being placed further and further into jeopardy, standing a lesser and lesser chance of being saved with each passing moment we wasted on debating whether or not to run an untested rig in the field."

"But did you really fully assess the situation beyond what you'd been told and what you could see, Malloy?" Mac asks me sharply. "Did you really stop and think about what needed to be done?"

"Yeah, you're damned right I did!" I tell him heatedly, anger flushing red in my face. "I DID stop and think about what needed to be done, Mac! How the hell do you think I got the goddamned roadblocks set up and began getting the area evacuated so damned fast? I reacted to what I saw was going on, to what I was told was going on, and what I KNEW was going on, using my training and years of experience as a guide as to how best to handle the horrific situation that was suddenly presented to me!"

"But while it was all well and good for you to begin taking charge of the situation, setting up the roadblocks and starting evacuation proceedings, it was NOT within your power to ask that the Armadillo be brought out there. You deliberately overrode my command and took it upon yourself to order Sergeant Baron to bring that rig out. I'm your superior officer, and you take your orders from me, NOT the other way around. I'm the one wearing the sergeant's stripes, not you, Malloy." Mac snipes back, shaking his finger at me.

"Then why the hell weren't you ACTING like a superior officer?" I growl at him, thoroughly pissed. "Why in the hell weren't you EARNING those sergeant's stripes, instead of standing there like a goddamned idiot, pissing around trying to decide what to do, while all hell was breaking loose around you?"

"Are you questioning my authority?" he snarls gruffly.

"I'm questioning your ability to be an effective commanding officer in a critical situation such as this!" I snarl back. "While you were dithering and indecisive out there at the scene, mewling about whether or not the Armadillo was capable of running smoothly in the rescue operations, innocent people were trapped in that park, waiting and praying for help to arrive. And only God knows how many of those people died during those moments of your indecisiveness!"

"But the order to bring the Armadillo out there was not within your realm of power, and you had no right to overstep the bounds and ask for it!" Mac's face flushes a deep crimson with unbridled anger. "That kind of order is supposed to come from me, not you, Malloy!"

"Then why in the fuck didn't you go ahead and order it without question?" I ask angrily. "You knew within a few seconds of assessing the scene YOURSELF what we had on our hands, so why in the hell didn't you act on your supposed authority and get on the goddamned radio and get the rig en route immediately, without whining and pissing around, worrying whether or not it would run well in the field? You knew the Armadillo had performed just fine under test runs, so there was no reason to even DOUBT it would fail us in the field. But no, I felt it was up to ME to make the decision about whether or not to call the rig in because YOU felt the need for an impromptu discussion, Sergeant, and those people out there didn't have the TIME for an impromptu discussion…they needed rescuing right then!"

"But it wasn't your right to go over my head and ask for the rig!" he yelps, pounding his fist atop the desk again, hard enough to make the metal in and out baskets jump and the pen holder rattle. "I was the ranking officer out there, not you!"

"Then you damned well shoulda acted like one!" I snap. "I'm not making any apologies for my actions out there, Sergeant," I tell him hotly. "I refuse to be condemned for your OWN lapse in judgement out there. It's not my fault you couldn't make up your goddamned mind, that you wanted to weigh the pros and the cons of bringing the rig out. We didn't have time for a leisurely debate, Mac, and the blame for your indecision and failure to act lies squarely with you, not me! If you're the commanding officer, then you shoulda acted like one! Instead, you acted like a damned fool out there, while lives were on the line!"

"Your attitude right now is very out of line, Malloy!" Mac barks.

"And I find your actions out there at the scene completely inexcuseable!" I bark back. "You're trying to lay the blame on me for something you damned well know is your own goddamned fault. And as far as us letting John Gage aboard that rig to assist with rescues, again, that is NOT our fault! You and Captain Stanley BOTH gave him the okay to be aboard that rig after we completed the second round of rescues. If you remember, I was the one who didn't want him aboard in the FIRST place, especially after he'd acted stupid and hijacked his way onto the rig after you and Stanley had originally vetoed his request to ride along with us. But because he DID prove to be of valuable assistance to us out there, the decision was made, by you and his captain, to allow him to remain aboard, as long as he followed our express orders out there."

"But he DIDN'T follow your express orders out there," Mac says. "Gage copped to that in his interview with the homicide dicks. He admitted he leaped out of the back of the rig without thinking, in order to try and save a victim that was already dead, despite the fact that the two of you ordered him to stay inside the Armadillo. But instead of booting him off after he pulled that little stunt, the two of you conspired to keep it quiet in order to keep him on the rig."

"We didn't conspire to keep Gage's actions quiet, Mac," Reed says with sharp irritation, finally stepping into the fray. "Despite that one foolish action, Gage was a true help to us out in the field. Without his assistance, the field ops wouldn't have gone as smoothly as they did. You can't deny that, Mac."

"But once he committed that foolish act of leaping out of the rig in order to save an already deceased victim, one of you should have reported what he did, to either Captain Stanley or I," Mac tells him heatedly. "Had we known any of that transpired out there, we would have taken the necessary steps to keep him off of the rig, including arresting him, if we had to. He put not only his own life in danger, but also yours."

"Okay, so who would've gone in and assisted us with rescues if he hadn't of done it?" Reed asks sharply. "You? Because gee, I sure as hell didn't see YOU strapping on a bulletproof vest and climbing aboard the Armadillo with us, Sergeant. And you gotta give John Gage credit, he was at least courageous enough to be willing to risk his own life in order to save those of others, and that's a damned sight better than YOU were willing to do."

"I had to man the command post and you damned well know it!" Mac defends himself with righteous anger. "And you have no goddamned right to call into question my courage, Reed! If I'd had to, I would have gone into battle right alongside the two of you, with no questions or hesitation on my part at all!"

"The fact of the matter is, Sergeant," I say sharply. "You and Captain Stanley had every opportunity to pull Gage's ass off that rig each and every time we returned from triage, and neither of you did. So that little matter is entirely in your hands, not ours."

"But Captain Stanley and I were not made aware of Gage's misconduct aboard the Armadillo until well after the fact," Mac seethes. "Had either of you two taken the opportunity to tell us some of the numbskull things he did, we woulda yanked him off so fast his head woulda spun."

"We didn't tell you about the numbskull things he did because we pretty much did some numbskull things ourselves," I inform him. "Out there in the field, it was a helluva lot different from standing back by your station wagon and giving orders. We were running on adrenaline and tunnel vision, and in retrospect, all three of us made some boneheaded moves, Mac. We were forced into reacting within a situation none of us had ever faced before, and…"

"Had he been killed out there, his family could have filed a fat little lawsuit against the city and likely won," Mac interrupts me.

"Mac, any of us coulda been killed out there!" I cry. "Just because Gage was wearing a badge different from ours, it didn't make him any bigger of a target to Burnside than we did!"

"That's not the point!" Mac says angrily. "When Gage disobeyed your orders in the field, one of you should have reported it to us…"

"Okay, we get it!" Reed snaps, interrupting Mac. "Gage shouldn't have been allowed to stay on the rig, but I'm mighty damned glad he did, because without him, I have no doubt in my mind the death toll woulda been a helluva lot higher than it is right now!"

"Do you?" Mac growls, his voice rising with ire. "Do you really get it, Reed? Do either of you really GET the enormity and the impact of your combined actions this afternoon?"

"Hey!" I snap. "You can't fault us for what we did out there in the long run, Sergeant! Our combined actions saved lives out there, plus we brought Burnside down in the end."

"Not before you both damn near got killed doing it!" Mac yells, slapping the top of his desk with his palm. "Which brings me to the final point…were the two of you even THINKING when you stupidly went after Burnside in the way that you did?"

"Of course we were thinking!" Reed snarls. "I was thinking how much I wanted to kill the sonofabitch…"

"But you didn't WAIT to see if we could have come up with another plan after he detonated the parking ramp!" Mac hisses. "The two of you rushed right into that building after Burnside, after he hurt your little feelings with his chatter on the CC unit, neither of you using your goddamned heads!" I start to speak, but Mac cuts me off with a sharp wave of his hand. "And don't tell me we didn't have the time to wait around for another plan to pop into our heads, Malloy. We had all the goddamned time in the world to wait Burnside out once we got the victims out of the park."

"I did use my head," I tell him in a low growl. "Why the fuck do you think I clicked the mike on the CC unit open and left it that way, so that those of you on the ground would know what was happening up on the roof?"

"And as it was, I ended up sending Air Ten into rescue your asses in a last-ditch move when Burnside got the upper hand over the two of you," Mac growls back. "Sure, it was smart of you to leave the mike open, Malloy, but it woulda been smarter of the two of you to have never of gone on that goddamned roof in the first fucking place! You two didn't know what kind of weaponry Burnside had up there! Hell, for all you knew, he coulda had a fucking rocket launcher and woulda used it on the two of you when you came dancing through that fire escape door!"

"Air Ten didn't report that kind of weaponry," Reed says heatedly.

"But you didn't know WHAT kinds of weapons he had, Reed, and that's the problem!" Mac tells him. "You rushed up there in a blind haste to get him, just because he'd said some vile things to you on the radio, and you didn't stop to think what you were walking into! That's why he got the drop on you!"

"He got the drop on me because my fucking rifle jammed on me," Reed snaps. "And I didn't have time to go for my revolver."

"See? You didn't have a clue as to how you were gonna handle things up on that roof once you got up there, you were just running on blind rage and sheer guts," Mac says. "Neither of you even stopped to THINK out any kind of a plan for neutralizing Burnside, even as you were running up that street towards the building…one of you just went after him, while the other one stupidly followed."

"Hey, I wasn't about to let him get killed up there on that rooftop if I could help it," I say defensively. "And yeah, we didn't formulate a plan, but we still brought him down in the end, and that's what counts when all is said and done!"

"When all is said and done, huh?" Mac gripes. "Izzat what the two of you think? That despite the fact that Burnside came within a hairsbreadth of killing you two, the fact that you outsmarted him in the end is what counts?" He snorts, shaking his head. "Oh hell no, it doesn't work that way, boys. You only scraped outta THAT little situation by sheer dumb luck, and nothing else. God must have a soft spot in his heart for you two fools, because I sure as hell don't right now. You'd better thank Him profusely for saving your sorry asses…AFTER you thank Jerry Walters for using Air Ten as a diversionary tactic just long enough for one of you idiots to act, shoving Burnside over the edge of the roof." He eyes us severely, leaning against his desk and folding his arms across his chest. "And what REALLY galls me…what REALLY REALLY galls me, is the fact that the two of you disobeyed my direct orders NOT to go up on that roof, just so you could play hero."

"God! I am getting so goddamned fucking sick and tired of that word!" Reed snaps. "Neither of us were heroes, Mac, we were just doing our goddamned jobs out there! Doesn't anyone understand that?"

"And do you understand that you nearly got yourself and your partner killed up on that roof, Reed, just because you leaped before you looked?" Mac asks sharply.

I've finally had it with Mac's outrage, my own anger and rage hitting the point of no return as I speak. "You know," I say, my voice a tiger's menacing growl. "It's easy for you to sit here and pass judgement on us for what we did out there today, because you weren't in the heart of the action, Sergeant. You can say that our actions were stupid and foolhardy and could have cost us our lives, and we fully KNOW that, believe me, we do. But we did what had to be done. No one else was gonna step into that wild-assed fray and rescue those people, and no one else was gonna face down Burnside up on the roof. We were the only ones willing to enter that mess and by God, we got the goddamned job done, didn't we? Yeah, admittedly, we threw the little blue rule book out the window and the two of us KNOW we're gonna be facing a disciplinary hearing on our actions, and we're both willing to take whatever punishment the board deems necessary, even if it means getting fired. But how DARE you stand here and condemn us for what we did out there, Sergeant. It wasn't YOU that rode into Hell on that Armadillo, it was us." My voice begins to rise as the dam holding back my seething rage finally ruptures, spewing forth in righteous indignation. "YOU weren't the one loading up terrified and horrifically injured preschool kids with that thousand-yard stare on their little faces, whimpering like little puppies in fear. YOU didn't see all the gravely injured and frightened victims that we pulled out of that park, some of them with such awful injuries, it'll be a miracle if they even survive. YOU didn't see the all the dead lying scattered around that park like matchsticks, YOU didn't have to try and justify leaving a woman's dead children in the park after you loaded her up, and YOU didn't end up chasing after her when she leapt off of the rig and tried to return to her kids. And SHE didn't take a bullet for YOU, she took the bullet meant for ME, and it killed HER instead. YOU didn't have blood all over your hands from loading up the injured, WE did. It wasn't YOUR uniform that had the brains and blood of a little girl strewn across it, her head having exploded from one of Burnside's bullets just as you were placing her into the back of the rig, it was Jim. And it wasn't YOU who who kept making that trip in the rig, over and over and over again, smelling the stench of puke and shit and piss and blood and gunpowder, it was US." I pause for a moment, staring angrily at Mac.

Drawing in a deep breath, I continue. "And it was ultimately US that made the decision to storm the roof and take Burnside down, NOT you! And you have NO GODDAMNED RIGHT to stand there and pass an across-the-board judgement against the two for our actions out there, because you weren't in the midst of it all! You didn't see any of it, you didn't experience any of it, so don't you DARE stand there and criticize us for our conduct in the field! You weren't the one riding aboard that rig, wondering each time going in if this is gonna be the trip that Burnside decides to blow your head off for you. You experienced none of the fear and outright horror in that Hell that we did, so you cannot stand there and tell us that what we did was wrong, because you weren't there!" My bitter vitriol and raging speech leaves me panting and shaking a bit, and I see that both Mac and Reed are staring at me, stunned. Slightly stunned myself at my outburst, I draw in a deep breath to restore some calm to myself and continue. "The fact of the matter is, we got the fucking job done, which is more than I can say for you," I tell Mac sharply. "If we'd waited around for you to get your goddamned head outta your ass and decide what to do, those people in the park would likely all be dead by now. Reed and I did what we had to do, and I'm sure as hell not sorry for the way we handled things out there, not by a long shot."

Mac quickly recovers from my heated outburst, stalking around the edge of the desk to stand right in front of me, folding his arms across his chest. "Are you done with your little speech, Malloy?" he asks in that low warning tone of voice.

I nod, regarding him through narrowed eyes. "I am."

"You are WAY outta line, Malloy," Mac says softly, leaning toward me with a deadly look in his eyes. "You don't EVER speak to your commanding officer the way you have just spoken to me. It's a fireable, cue-bow offense, and I oughta yank your badge for that little outburst. But, I'm not. I'm going to pretend that I never heard you say those words to me, I'm going to pretend that you didn't lose your temper at me like you just did, because I'm going to assume that this nasty little attitude of yours is caused by the stress and turmoil of today's events, and nothing else, because Pete Malloy in his RIGHT MIND would NEVER, EVER talk back to a superior officer like that just now." Then he nods at the door dismissively. "Now. We're done here. Get outta my sight before I change my goddamned mind and fire you anyway."

I stare at him, utterly furious. Then I bend down, picking up my gear bag and setting it on the chair. Unzipping it, I reach into the inner pocket and pull my badge out, the silver metal casting a ray of light across Mac's ceiling. I hold it in my palm for just a moment, rubbing my thumb across the numbers, then I toss it onto Mac's desk, the metal clinking sharply against the wood. "There," I tell him in my own deadly tone of voice. "You've got my fucking badge. And you can take it and stick it up your goddamned ass, Sergeant." I grab up the bag containing the rest of my stuff, zipping it shut, then I stalk angrily towards the door. I hesitate, my hand on the knob as I look back at Reed. "You coming?" I ask him sharply.

"Yeah," he says, staring at my badge lying on top of Mac's desk. Then he quickly unzips his own gear bag, pulling out his badge, and tossing it next to mine without a moment's hesitation. "There's mine, too," he tells Mac quietly, his voice grim. "You can take this fucking job and stick it, Sergeant, 'cuz we quit." Then he picks up the bag, and starts to follow me.

"Reed! Malloy! Get back here!" Mac roars as I open the door. "You two can't walk out on the job just like that!"

"I believe we just did, Sergeant," I tell coolly him over my shoulder. "And there's nothing you can do to stop us." I smirk slightly. "And now, as you said, we're done here," I tell him, loading my voice with as much sarcasm and venom as I can muster. And with those as the final parting words, Reed and I leave his office, our badges lying on top of his desk, both of us having just walked away from our long careers as police officers for the city of Los Angeles.

And neither one of us looks back, not even once.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Wind Cries Mary" is the property of Jimi Hendrix, no copyright infringement intended. **ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION.** In order to enhance the overall plot experience, creative liberties may have been intentionally taken with the real-life protocols depicted herein.

"You wanna stop by Leroy's and grab a beer?" I ask Reed as we toss our gear bags into the backseat of my blue '68 Mustang, the car I'd traded the piece of crap Matador in for earlier this year, after the Matador spent more time in the shop than on the road.

"No," Reed says, shaking his head as he rests his arms on the roof of the car for a moment. "I'd better not. I told Jean I'd be home as soon as I could. She's really upset right now." He opens the car door and climbs into the passenger side. "Which means yet another one of our 'discussions', I fear," he grumbles as he slams the car door shut.

"You sure?" I ask as I climb in on the driver's side. "I'll buy."

"I'm sure," he says, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "I just want to to go home, Pete, even though it means hearing the same old argument from Jean, about how my job is dangerous and one of these days I'm gonna get seriously injured or even killed, thus leaving her and our two children without a husband and a father." He sighs a bit. "Our arguments are such reruns now, that I can nearly fight with her in my sleep."

"Yeah, but she shouldn't be upset with you for what happened today," I tell him. "It's all just part of the job, ya know. And she should be glad that you did a lot of good out there, rescuing those people that were trapped by Burnside's gunfire and ultimately bringing him down in the end in a pretty heroic effort on your part."

"Yeah, well, my job has quit having the heroic air about it for her, I'm afraid," he says dryly. He holds his hand up. "And now, if you don't mind, I really don't want to talk about any of this anymore, okay? Not about Burnside, not about my marriage." He sets his mouth into a thin line of disapproval, furrowing his brows as he slouches his lanky frame in the bucket seat, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes shift restlessly about the cream interior of my car, skimming sightlessly across the dashboard's instrument panel, his nervous energy fairly palpable within the confines of the car.

I study him for a moment, his hunched posture and deeply creased frown indicating how today's incident seems to have aged him a hundred years, going from a young man in his late twenties when we first started our shift, to a stooped old gentleman with world-weary eyes, just in the space of a single afternoon. I catch sight of my own similar gaze in the rearview mirror, feeling much like Jim looks right now, weary and wizened beyond my 38 years, the toll of today sitting heavily on my shoulders. "Suit yourself," I say, shrugging, then I turn the key in the ignition, the Mustang's powerful V-8 engine rumbling to life. Wordlessly, I put the car into gear and back up, pulling out of the driveway at the far end of the parking lot so as to avoid the news media camped around the front of the police station. That's a gauntlet that neither of us needs to run right now. As I head the car in the direction of Reed's house, the only sound is of the tires gently humming on the white ribbon of road, while the passing streetlights flash past outside, casting shadows into the car. A heavy pall of silence sits upon us and I clear my throat, feeling the need to say at least SOMETHING in order to break the tension. "You okay?" I ask softly, glancing over at him as we pull up to a red light.

"Am I supposed to be?" he replies acidly. He looks over at me once, his eyes narrowed, daring me to answer, then he turns his gaze to the scenery outside his window as he drums his fingers on the ledge of the doorframe. "And what part of 'I don't want to talk about it' don't you understand, Pete?" he asks rather snidely.

"Well, excuuuse me for asking," I tell him tersely. "I'll shut the hell up and not bother you, pal."

"Sounds peachy," he replies sourly. Drawing in a deep breath, he lets it out with a hiss between his clenched teeth, the muscle in his jaw twitching from tension, his sour discontent rolling off of him in a wave of barely-suppressed energy. Suddenly he leans forward, flicking on the radio with a sharp twist of his fingers. Static hisses through the speakers as he fiddles with the tuner, and blurts of music and words babble by as he mindlessly spins the dial from one end of the radio to the other, the tuner sweeping past the stations.

The intrusion of the noise into the quiet of the car irritates me, the sound grating on my already-raw nerves. "Look, pick a damned station and stay on it," I tell him grumpily. "That noise is giving me a headache."

"Fine," he huffs, shooting me a glare. He finally tunes into a station and turns up the volume in order to spite me, settling back into his seat with a slight smirk as the radio blares a commercial for a local used car lot. And in a strange twist of irony, the commercial happens to be for the same car lot that is across the street from Granite Park, the one that the owner didn't wish to leave when we began evacuating the area because of Charlie Burnside.

"Come on down to the AutoZip car lot on the corner of Adamson Avenue and Palmtree Drive, and see what kind of great deals we have on premium used vehicles!" the announcer in the commercial cheerily chirps. "Tug it, tow it, or tell us where your old vehicle is and we'll go get it, automatically giving you two hundred dollars trade-in on it, no matter WHAT kind of shape it's in! Hurry, offer ends September 30th so act now! Tell them Big Eddie sent you!" The commercial ends with a silly little jingle, then the radio announcer starts speaking, apparently picking up where he left off prior to the commercial break.

"This is your KQIC nighttime DJ, Dandy Don Gonzales, and if you've just tuned in to catch Midnight Music Mania, it has been pre-empted in order so that we may take your calls in the studios right now, concerning the violent tragedy that has struck the city of Los Angeles today. We'd like to hear your thoughts and comments on what has happened, so please, call us at 555-4343 and let us know what you're thinking," he intones dramatically, a sharp departure from Dandy Don's usual goofy on-air personality. "I see we already have a listener on the line. Go ahead caller, you're on the air."

"Yes," a woman's voice says tentatively. "Dandy Don, I'd just like to say how sad I feel right now for the victims of today's awful attack. I can't imagine the terrible heartbreak the survivors and the loved ones of the deceased are dealing with right now. It's like Austin and Atlanta all over again. And do you know what probably sent that sniper over the edge, Dandy Don?"

"I don't know, ma'am, what do you think sent the sniper over the edge?" Dandy Don asks with bored curiosity. "Was it personal stress, a vendetta against the city, or what?"

"He probably wasn't hugged enough," she says firmly, earning a derisive snort from both Jim and I. "I think everyone should be hugged at least once or twice a day, and told that they are very special. I mean, really…if that happened more often, we probably wouldn't have as much violence and crime in the world today, would we? And he probably also didn't have a very healthy diet, either, and that might have led to his decision to begin a killing spree. He most likely ate a lot of junk food and had lots of meals at fast food places like McDonalds, and everyone knows that those types of foods are not nutritious at all. Too many processed sugars and fats, and not enough fresh vegetables and yogurt."

"So…" Dandy Don sounds like he's trying hard to keep from laughing. "Basically what you're saying is that not being hugged enough and eating too many Twinkies and Big Macs had something to do with this man's desire to go up on the roof of a building and start shooting people?"

"Of course!" she replies indignantly. "I'm just sure of it! And if we want to avoid similar attacks in the future, we need to start outlawing such food products like Ho-Ho's and DingDongs, and putting a limit on how often someone can eat at places like McDonald's and In-N-Out Burger. I mean, that's the perfect solution to violence all over the world, Don. Start hugging people every day and get rid of the evil sugars and fats in the food industry, and promote healthy eating for everyone."

"Well, good luck with that, fair listener," Dandy Don chuckles. "I mean, not everyone wants to be hugged by total strangers, and I think you'll have a pretty hard time outlawing Hostess products and McDonald's restaurants, but I sincerely wish you the best in your endeavors to do so." He switches to another caller. "Go ahead, caller, you're on the air. Share with the other listeners what your thoughts are concerning this tragedy."

"Yeah, man," a man's voice drawls in slow stoner fashion. "I agree with that chick just now, she sounds pretty foxy and I wouldn't mind havin' her come hug me a few times. And in addition to going around hugging people, man, she should also start trying to heal the world with some medicinal herbal remedies." He waits a beat. "Like…you know what I mean, man…everyone needs to turn on, tune in, and drop out, 'cuz that's the righteous thing to do. But don't make the Twinkies and the Big Macs illegal, man, 'cuz what else are we gonna eat when we get the munchies?" He begins giggling uncontrollably, evidently having been a victim of his own bad advice.

"Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with these people!" Reed spits angrily, leaning forward and pounding savagely on my dashboard with a clenched fist as he wrenches the knob on the radio, turning it off with a violent click. "I can't even turn on the radio without hearing a buncha idiots yammering on about Burnside's attack!"

"Hey, take it easy on my car, pal!" I yelp, jumping a bit in startlement from his sudden attack on my dashboard. "Don't damage it for me!"

"Damn it, those stupid fucking fools have NO fucking clue what really happened out there today!" he growls, turning on me in a heated fury. "They have no goddamned idea what kind of hellish nightmare we endured at Burnside's hands! And this crap about his attack being caused by not enough hugs or a bad diet, or because he needed to get high…it's just bullshit, pure and utter bullshit, Pete. The ONLY reason Burnside did what he did today was because he was a mean and malicious little fuck, evil pure through to the bone." He doesn't allow me to respond; instead, he continues to rage, gesturing his hands about to punctuate his remarks. "I mean, the world out here doesn't KNOW what the world was like back there on Granite Court. These people will wake up and read about that miserable little prick Burnside in tomorrow's headlines, while they go on about their lives, just the same as they would any other day. While they may be shocked and horrified by his actions, they don't really care what Burnside did, just as long it has no direct impact on them and won't impede or hamper their lifestyles in any way." He folds his arms across his chest and shakes his head. "It's just fucking unreal, and these bozos don't get it."

"Which is why we need to do the news conference tomorrow morning," I tell him. "So that the bozos DO get it, so that they DO understand what we went through today."

"Nuh-uh," he says firmly, still shaking his head. "We quit, remember? So now we don't hafta go through the press conference tomorrow, thank God."

I cast a glance over at him. "We haven't officially quit, Jim, until we tender our written resignations to Val and he approves them. Which I have a feeling he's not gonna do."

"Why?" Reed asks. "Val can't stop us from quitting, can he?"

"No," I say, shaking my head. "But he can sure as hell make it difficult for us to do so, Jim. I mean, he's not about to let two of his best officers just walk off the force without putting up some kind of a fight."

"Well, he can fight as much as he damned well wants," Reed says sullenly, settling into the seat with a pout. "I'm quitting the job. And I'm NOT changing my mind, either."

"Whatever happened to that gung-ho kid that damned near got himself killed on his first night out on the job?" I ask, giving him a curious look.

"That gung-ho kid…he's gone, Pete," he says softly, after a moment. "And he's been gone for quite awhile now, too, in case you haven't noticed." He looks over at me then, his blue eyes deeply haunted and full of bitter despair. "What in the hell happened to us, Pete?" he asks sadly. "I mean, when I first came on the job, I really loved it and couldn't wait to get to work and see what surprises every shift held, but now…" His voice trails off and he bites his lip as he stares at his hands in his lap. "But now, it's hard for me to even want to put on the uniform anymore, ya know? I just get so sick and tired of seeing the same stupid people, pulling the same fucking shit, over and over again, without ever learning a goddamned thing. It's like we're guppies swimming around in the tidal wave of the cesspool of life. We go nowhere, absolutely nowhere, and what we do never makes a damned bit of difference, it seems." He shrugs, holding his hands out in supplication. "I mean, I'm beginning to wonder why we even bother anymore, Pete. Nothing ever changes, and I don't think it will, either. Stupidity breeds stupidity and apathy breeds apathy." He sighs wearily, shaking his head. "So, to paraphrase the words of the great Simon and Garfunkel, 'where have we gone, Pete Malloy'?"

I am silent, unable to really frame a suitable answer for him, for Reed's comments hit sharply home for me. What he speaks is the unvarnished truth…anymore it seems that we keep dealing with the same stupid people, that keep pulling the same stupid crimes, and they're right back out on the streets within a few hours of their arrests, ready to commit the same crime again, in a never-ending cycle. And the apathetic world could really care less, for ambivalence is easy to come by in today's self-insular society. Why worry about the plight of fellow man, when the emphasis anymore is on the individual? "I dunno, Jim," I tell him quietly, after trying to put my thoughts into words and failing. "I just don't know."

He gives me a thin ghost of a smile, one that has absolutely no humor in it at all. "What's the matter, did the Strawberry Fox's font of wisdom dry up?"

"No, my wisdom's just in short supply right now," I reply.

Reed falls moodily silent, staring with unseeing eyes out the window once more. "Maybe this…" he begins, then stops, clearing his throat. "Maybe by me quitting the force, it will save my marriage," he says, injecting a note of eager optimism into his voice. "I mean, that's been one of Jean's main contentions for awhile, the fact that I'm a cop and the job gets in the way of our family life. She uses the knowledge that police work is dangerous and risky against me as a leverage in order to try and force me into another job that isn't as dangerous and has better pay. Our household budget is stretched pretty thin sometimes, and it's only going to get worse after the new baby is born." His fingers stray to the spot where his wedding band usually sits and he begins to rub his ring finger in a gesture of nervousness. "So now I'll get job doing something else, something that she approves of, and maybe she won't leave me, huh?" He gives me a hopeful look.

"Maybe," I tell him noncommittally, trying to keep the traces of doubt out of my voice so I don't tread on his thin thread of faith, something I am sorely lacking in right now.

He reads my mind with a sour grimace. "You don't think it will, do you, Pete?" he asks with dismay. "You don't think my quitting the force will save my marriage, do you?"

I shrug. "I dunno," I tell him. "If Jean's already got the divorce papers drawn up, Jim, I think she's pretty serious about going through with it." I glance over at him in sympathy. "I mean, I just don't want you getting your hopes up, you know?"

"Hah," he barks humorlessly. "Don't you know, Pete? There IS no longer any hope in the world. It has no place anymore amongst the outright greed and cruel selfishness that runs rampant in today's society. Faith and hope have become plodding dinosaurs that will soon cease to exist in the modern world, being replaced by the hate and apathy that seems poised to take over."

"That's a pretty cynical outlook on life to take, Jim," I caution him, slightly surprised by his bitter take on life.

"You got any better one to offer me?" he challenges.

"No," I sigh. "Not really."

He watches me for a moment, his eyes narrowed in thought. "Besides, you're one to talk, Pete. You've got the same kind of outlook on life yourself, and you can't tell me any different. You're just as cynical and jaded as I am, if not more."

"Maybe so, but I'm older than you and therefore entitled to it," I tell him evenly.

"Age has nothing to do with it," he says dryly. "It's the life experiences, friend. And right now, this little experience today has definitely made me rethink my outlook on life. It seems any more there is more bad than there is good in the world, and everyone is just out for themselves, not giving a damn about their fellow human beings." He throws me a dark look. "Does the Strawberry Fox have any bits of wisdom about THAT?" he asks snarkily.

"This too shall pass," I tell him. "Something good will eventually come along and change your mind about the state of the world, you'll see. What happened today won't color your outlook forever, trust me. You won't always feel this way, my friend. You WILL see the good in the world again, if not through your eyes, then through the eyes of your children, and your children's children."

"THAT'S your great wisdom?" he barks with a derisive snort. "That this too shall pass? That I won't always feel this shitty forever? I never thought I'd see the day when the Strawberry Fox has fallen back on homey little platitudes to soothe a troubled soul. Platitudes which, I might add, do absolutely NOTHING for me right now." He shakes his head as he regards me with a bitter smile. "Christ, pull back the curtains and expose the great Oz for the sad little fraud he truly is."

"What the hell do you want me to say?" I snap in needled frustration. "It's been a long fucking day and I'm tired, damn it. I mean, if you wanna take that kind of pissy outlook for the rest of your life, then fine, go ahead and take it. See if I give a damn."

"Why not?" he asks. "You have a pissy outlook on life yourself, so where do you get off chastising me about having the same kind of attitude as you? Didja ever think that maybe your sour viewpoint of the world has rubbed off on me and made me this way?"

I shoot him a dark scowl. "Oh no. You ain't layin' the blame for your poor outlook on life at MY feet, pal. You're a free man, Reed, and you're supposed to be able to form your own opinions without my input. If you've somehow adopted my viewpoint, then it isn't my fault. I didn't tell you that you had to think like I do, nor do I expect you to. And I can't say that I really appreciate you painting me as some sort of misguided misanthrope that doesn't believe there's any hope for the world. I may be cynical and jaded, but not I'm not THAT cynical and jaded."

He starts to open his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it, closing his mouth with a snap and falling silent in the seat, staring out the windshield of the car as he grits his teeth. After a moment, he speaks. "This press conference tomorrow," he says tonelessly. "I'm not doing it, Pete."

"Look," I sigh, preparing to sally forth into another battlefield. "I don't want to do it, either, but we almost have to. The brass expects us to, and so does the public. And like Val said, once the furor has died down, we can get back to our normal lives."

"Shit, Pete, there IS no more normal for us anymore, don't you realize that? From here on out, no matter what else we do in our lives, we'll always be known as the guys who got Charlie Burnside," he says acidly. He drums his fingers on the window ledge nervously. "No," he says in a flat voice, shaking his head and grimacing. "I'm just not going to show up for it. I'll call Val in the morning and plead sickness or something. He'll understand, I'm sure."

I look over at him with a frown. "That's kind of taking the coward's way out of a problem, isn't it, Jim? You're usually not one to shirk a responsibility, after all, no matter how odious it may be."

"Oh, and you think it's gonna be so goddamned great to get up in front of those news reporters tomorrow and shill for them, giving them the song and dance that the brass tells you to give them?" he asks, whipping to face me in the seat in sudden rage, his blue eyes flashing angrily. "I mean, this is great. It's just fan-fucking-tastic. My partner is willing to get up and milk the title of hero, just for his fifteen minutes of fame and glory. What a goddamned sellout you are, Pete. Next thing you know, you'll be signing book deals and weighing movie options to portray your heroic deeds."

Anger of my own rises quickly within me at his unfair and untruthful accusation. "Now wait just a goddamned minute here, Reed," I snap back defensively. "I'm not playing hero for the news conference tomorrow. I just think that in order for the citizens to fully grasp the horror of what has happened today, they need to hear it from those that experienced it firsthand. And besides, weren't YOU the one who just minutes ago was bemoaning the fact that the 'bozos' didn't GET the enormity of what happened this afternoon?"

"Yeah, but to trot out our gory war story, just for public consumption?" he asks in disbelief. "I could see someone like Ed Wells riding this for all it was worth, but not you, Pete. I never had you pegged as the type who'd enjoy being hailed as a hero."

"Look, our 'gory war story', as you so succinctly put it, is gonna come out in the press anyway, whether we want it to or not," I tell him sharply. "You know just as well as I do that the details and the information regarding the case will eventually be made public."

"Yeah, but that won't be until maybe a year or so down the road, after the investigation is complete," he says. "And by that time, the public will have forgotten and moved on."

"But is that what you want them to do?" I ask. "Just forget about what gruesome hell and horror happened out there on Granite Court and move on? I mean, that's like telling the victims' families and the survivors of the attack that what they experienced today is inconsequential, that nobody really gives a damn what happened to them, and everyone should just forget all about it and get on with their lives. You're downplaying the suffering and the heartache that's left behind in the wake of this situation, and that's not right. You're doing a severe injustice to the tragedy and the all horror that occurred out there today, and you're not allowing the suvivors and the victims' families speak out in their own voices and relate their experiences and emotions. And without doing that, healing will never start to happen so that maybe people CAN move on with their lives, however shattered and heartbroken they may be right now."

"Damn it, that's not what I mean and you know it!" he decries, throwing his hands up in the air. "I…you…ah…I…" he sputters fitfully, clearly at a loss for words to describe what he means. He angrily punches the dashboard with a fist. "Damn it, stop the car, Pete!" he growls.

"Why, are you getting sick or something?" I ask warily, not wanting to clean Reed's puke from inside of my baby.

"JUST STOP THE GODDAMNED CAR!" he explodes in red-faced fury.

"FINE!" I yell back, glancing over my shoulder to make sure I'm clear of traffic in the other lane before I quickly yank the steering wheel to the right and jerk the Mustang to a screeching halt at the nearby curb. "There, the goddamned car is stopped!" I snarl. "Happy now?"

"I WILL be, once I get out and away from you, damn it!" he snaps, yanking the door open with a jerk and hopping out. Shoving the bucket seat forward with a violent thunk, he grabs his gear bag out of the backseat of the car.

"So whaddaya gonna do, walk the rest of the way home?" I ask snarkily. "You've still got a good six blocks to go, pal."

He doesn't answer me as he slings the gear bag over his shoulder and starts to shut the car door. Then he hesitates, leaning into the compartment to glower at me, his rage coloring his face a maroon hue in the streetlight overhead. "Let's get one thing straight, Malloy," he says in a menacing tone, jabbing a finger at me, his blue eyes snapping fire. "I'm not attending that news conference tomorrow and that's final. If you wanna go and spill your guts about the horrible experience just to satisfy the public's morbid curiosity, then go right ahead and play hero for them. But just make sure the cameras get your good side, and by that little comment, I mean your ass." He hesitates for a moment, his anger still blazing high. "And furthermore, as far as I'm concerned, you can fucking go to hell, Malloy, and take everyone else with you!" He steps back then, slamming the car door hard enough to make the Mustang rock on its wheels. Turning away, he begins to stride down the quiet neighborhood street, the nearby houses blank-faced and dark, the sidewalk stretching out before him like a pale ghostly ribbon as he marches resolutely towards his house with his head down, the gear bag slung over his shoulder.

For a moment, I sit there at the curb, watching him lope homeward, then I angrily shove the car into gear and pull away with a squeal of the tires. As I pass him, he doesn't look over at me, nor do I look over at him, my anger at him diminished only slightly by the fact that he's no longer in the car with me. I cast him a just cursory glance in the rearview mirror, my eyes flicking to the lone figure of my partner and friend that grows steadily smaller behind me, then I turn the corner, heading the Mustang in the direction of my apartment. I know in my heart that his anger at me is displaced, stemming from his shock of today's event and his unvented feelings of rage towards Charlie Burnside. But still, that doesn't make me want to be his whipping boy, even if that means I'm not being a very good friend to him right now. Shaking my head, I reach over and turn on the radio, twiddling aimlessly with the dial until I finally pull in a station that is playing music instead of discussing the sniper killings. 'The Wind Cries Mary', an old Jimi Hendrix song is playing, and I listen to it, letting the lyrics wash over me in a soothing balm to ease my troubled soul.

After all the jacks are in their boxes,

After all the clowns have gone to bed.

You can hear Happiness staggering on down the street,

Footsteps dressed in red.

And the wind whispers Mary.

A broom is drearily sweeping,

Up the broken pieces of yesterday's life.

Somwhere a queen is weeping,

Somewhere a king has no wife.

And the wind, it cries Mary.

The traffic lights, they all turn blue tomorrow,

And shine their emptiness down on my bed,

The tiny island sags downstream,

'Cuz the life they lived is dead.

And the wind screams Mary.

Will the wind ever remember,

The names it has blown in the past.

And with this crutch, its old age and wisdom,

It whispers, "No, this will be the last."

And the wind cries Mary.

The song ends then, and several commercials follow before the DJ returns to the air. "This is your overnight groove channel KQRC102.9, with your DJ Rockin' Randy in the studio to take your song dedications for the victims of today's tragic shooting in Los Angeles. Our lines are open, so if you have a song you'd like to dedicate to those affected by today's tragedy, please, give us a call at 555-9000. Up next we have a rockin' block of Don McLean's 'American Pie', Led Zep's 'Stairway To Heaven', The Beatles' 'Yesterday', and Head East's 'Never Been Any Reason'. So stay tuned and…"

Sighing, I reach over and turn the radio back off, for I'm not in the mood to hear any songs dedicated to the victims of Charlie Burnside's massacre. My tired brain focusing only on one thing…home…I drive the rest of the way back to my apartment in silence, the thrumming of the tires on the pavement soothing me a bit, easing my troubled mind from the thoughts that swirl and eddy about in my brain like a twisting tornado.

For I know that while our hell out on Granite Court is now physically over for the two of us, the dark mental hell and torment we are facing is only just beginning, making me truly worry about the sanctity and the well-being of not only our minds, but our souls as well. I can only hope that both Jim Reed and I are strong enough of our hearts and our minds, the two of us possessing the ironclad courage and the unshakeable faith to get us through this ordeal, enduring the aftermath the only way we can…one day at a time, and with the support of each other.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION.** In order to enhance the overall plot experience, creative liberties may have been intentionally taken with the real-life protocols depicted herein.

As I pull into the parking lot of my apartment house, I hesitate for a moment, my hands on the steering wheel and the car idling patiently, the urge strong in me to turn the Mustang around and hit the highway, opening up that powerful engine and letting the fast little car carry me into nowhere under the star-speckled sky, leaving everything far behind as I race into the forgiving night. But with a sigh, I realize there really is no escape from the Hell that was today, no matter how far or how fast I might flee, so I pull into the slot assigned to me and park, killing the Mustang's purr and pulling the keys from the ignition. Suddenly a wave of sheer bone-weariness hits me and I grip the steering wheel tightly in my hands, letting my head rest against it for a moment, closing my eyes as I try and gather my scattered thoughts. Heavy with indolent lassitude, I settle back into the seat, idly running a thumb over the keyfob that is clutched in my fingers, a small, silver medallion that has St. Michael, the patron saint of police officers, etched into it. The keys jingle softly against my palm with the movement and I lean my head back against the headrest, staring up at the low ceiling of the car, suddenly rather starkly reminded of the fact that either the good St. Michael or someone else kept Jim Reed and John Gage and I from getting killed out there today.

With a stab of guilt, I realize that in today's frantic mess, I haven't properly thanked whomever it was that kept the three of us safe, so I clear my throat, my eyes fixed on the shiny medallion in my hand as I begin the words to a halting prayer of deep gratitude. "Hey…uh…I'm not…" My voice trails off and I stop, staring dumbly at the keyfob as I wrack my brain for the words to offer up, but admittedly, praying has never come easy to me. Sighing, I scrub a hand down my face, taking a deep breath and clearing my throat again as I start over. "I…uh…I…Damn it, why is this so fucking HARD!" I snap with frustration, hitting the steering wheel with a tightly clenched fist. I try to regroup, hoping like hell that the third time is the charm. "I…um…just want to say thanks for watching over Johnny, Jim, and I, and keeping us safe out there today, ya know?" I stop again, biting my lip for a moment in hesitation, rubbing my fingers over the engraved image of the St. Michael medallion that lies warm in my palm, then I continue, my voice halting and hushed as I slowly find my words. "And please…watch over my partner, Jim Reed, for me. He's…he's going through a really tough time right now and I don't want him to lose his way. I mean, he's strong, but I'm…I'm really worried about him and…" The words suddenly well up in my throat, clogging it with barely-checked emotion, and I find that I must swallow hard a few times in order to go on, my voice dropping down into a hoarse whisper when I speak next. "He's…I…I love him like he's my kid brother, and I don't want anything to happen to him, because I don't think I could stand losing someone I really care about again…" My voice trails off a final time and with a heavy sigh, I decide to stop there, hoping like hell God heard my prayer, because I know that I can't continue any further without losing control of the vortex of emotions that are running just below my surface.

With weary resignation, I open the car door and gingerly climb out, reaching back to grab my gear bag from the backseat, as every single muscle in my body screams in pain with my movements, letting me know that come tomorrow morning, I'm going to be as sore as hell. Closing the door and making sure that the the car is locked up, I plod across the asphalt parking lot, trudging up the front sidewalk and slowly climbing the wooden stairwell that leads to the upper story of the apartment complex, feeling utterly beat when I reach the top, as if it were Mt. Everest I just climbed, instead of stairs. The wooden boards of the balcony creak under my tread, and with leaden feet, I come to a stop in front of the heavy wood door of my apartment, staring for a moment at the gold numbers marked "208." It seems like an entire lifetime has passed since I left my place this morning in order to go to work. I know that I am finally home, yet the notion of home feels foreign to me, as if I am somehow a guest in my own apartment…belonging there, but not belonging there, for the world that I left behind when I went to work today no longer exists, except in a distant, dream-like memory of when my innocence was still unshattered. Restlessly jingling my keys in my hand, I stand there in front of the door and study it forlornly, feeling as if I have somehow shown up at the right place, but in the wrong era.

Then the brown plaid curtains at my window suddenly sweep aside for a moment, a pale face peeking out at me, then the locks on the door click frantically undone and the door flies open with a bang, revealing my girlfriend, Judy Smith, standing there in the doorway, trembling, her face drawn with worry as she regards me with wide eyes. With a small garbled cry, she literally launches herself at me, slamming into me, knocking the breath out of me and making me drop the gear bag with a thud to the balcony as I brace myself against the balcony railing to keep from toppling over it. She jumps up and down in front of me, alternately hugging me tightly and trying to kiss me frantically on the lips, her overly enthusiastic response to my arrival home reminding me of a dog that is overjoyed to greet you as if you've been gone forever and ever, even if you've just returned from taking the garbage out or retrieving the mail.

"Hey!" I exclaim, wondering why in the hell I didn't see her green Pinto out in the parking lot, because if I HAD, I likely would have given into my instinct to hit the open road in the Mustang and leave everything behind me. "Jesus, take it easy, okay? Don't knock me off the damned deck, Judy," I grumble, wincing with pain as she pushes her head against the bruise on my chest that was caused by Burnside's bullet hitting my bulletproof vest. She doesn't notice at all that I fail to return her gestures of affection, and her very presence dismays me, for I had HOPED to come home to silence and solitude, in order to decompress and process everything that has happened today on my own, without having to deal with someone else's emotions and drama.

"Oh my God, Pete!" she sobs brokenly against my chest, her arms wrapped tightly around my waist as she literally tries to bury herself into me, her body grinding against mine in her attempt to nearly climb me and get as close to me as she possibly can. "I've been so worried and scared for you!" She looks up at me with a pale, tearstained face, her blue eyes watery and bloodshot.

"You shouldn't have been, Judy, I'm fine," I tell her dismissively, grabbing her by the upper arms and gently trying to pry her off of me, for her touch irritates me for some reason I cannot explain, other than after today's horror, I have NO desire to be handled or petted or touched right now, the very idea sending waves of loathing skittering through me. My attempt to loosen her hold makes her only cling harder and I finally give up, patting her hair in a mechanical gesture of comfort that I don't feel, unable to bring myself to hug her in even the smallest fashion. "I'm okay," I assure her again in a flat tone of voice, resenting her greatly for just being here. I give her a thin, edgy smile that I don't feel, the movement feeling strange to me, as if the muscles in my face that allow me to smile are somehow broken. "Let's go inside so that we don't bother the neighbors, okay?" I try to move in the direction of my apartment, with Judy still clinging stubbornly to me, weighing me down.

"Is THAT what you're worried about right now, Pete, bothering the neighbors?" she asks shrilly. She lets go of me then and backs away from me with a wounded look in her eyes as she folds her arms across her chest, shivering slightly in the cool night air. "All I wanted to do was hug you and show you how glad I am that you're still alive." Her voice holds a dual note of accusation and mournful self-pity.

"Judy, please," I sigh wearily, not wanting to get into this with her at this point in time. "It's been a really, really bad day, and I want nothing more right now than to take a shower and go to bed." I retrieve my gear bag from the wooden deck and brush past her then, entering my apartment as Judy follows whipped puppy-like along behind me, shutting and relocking the door as I set my bag down on the floor and take off my windbreaker, hanging it up on a peg near the door, next to Judy's green fall jacket and brown leather purse that are also hanging there on a separate peg.

"Oh, PETE!" Judy cries, throwing herself at me once more after I hang up my jacket, clearly not caring if she makes a scene now that we're inside my apartment. She wraps her arms tightly around me again, snuggling into me, her eager touch and desire to be close to me making me squirm uneasily in her grasp, set on edge by her avid wish to be as goddamned close to me as she possibly can. I sense that if she could somehow climb inside the very pores of my skin, she likely would, just to be near me. "What a terrible, awful day this has been! You must be SO exhausted, poor baby! Please, tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it."

I don't answer her, instead raking dismayed eyes over the disarray of my normally tidy apartment, Judy's unwanted intrusion making it feel less like home and more like a jail cell. White clots of used tissues dot the landscape of my blue and green plaid couch and brown shag carpeting, with more tissues piled on the low-slung coffee table, next to a half-empty box of hankies. The television is on, but the sound is turned way down, the silent images sending flickering bursts of colors into the dimly lit room, for the only illumination in the room is coming from the green ceramic lamp that sits on an end table next to the couch. An untouched bowl of what looks to be watery yellow chicken noodle soup is on the coffee table next to one of my coffee mugs, the thin skim of film over the soup indicating it's long since gone cold. Judy's worry and her misery is quite evident in the debris she's left behind. "Judy, please, let go of me," I say with rapidly growing irritation, trying to pull myself free from her grasp once more. "You didn't have to come over here. I would have called when I got home to let you know I was okay."

"No you wouldn't," she says firmly, rubbing her cheek against my chest, clinging to me like a damned barnacle sticking to a ship, refusing to release me. "I know you, Pete, and you wouldn't have called me until tomorrow morning. And I had to know tonight whether you were okay or not." Her voice when she speaks is low and hoarse, rubbed raw from crying. "When I heard about the sniper shootings and that the LAPD SWAT team was handling it, I knew right away that you and Jim were probably involved. I was frantic with fear for the two of you, knowing that you both were likely in serious danger out there. I love you so much, and I don't want anything to happen to you, you know. I always worry about your safety out there, honey, but especially today, when I knew you were likely in harm's way. That's why I wish you'd quit the force and go into something safer, like selling life insurance or working in a bank." She gives me a purely calculating look that indicates she's been pondering THIS subject for quite awhile now. "In fact, Daddy was just saying the other day that one of his agents is going to be retiring at the end of this year, and he said the job is yours if you want it, that he's willing to train you. Why don't you at least consider it, sweetheart? I mean, sure, we'd have to leave California and move to Colorado, but we could do it, I know we could. I can get my old job teaching at Wilson Elementary back, and Daddy could start looking for a place for us to live out there NOW, so that when we DID move, our house would be just waiting for us. We could stop over in Las Vegas and get married, or we could have a quick ceremony here in Los Angeles before we moved, and that way, we'd be embarking on a whole new life together." She hugs me tight once more, giving me a pleading look. "What do you say, honey? Should we move to Colorado and start a new life, with you as an insurance agent, and me as a teacher?"

"I need a drink," I mutter sourly in response, grabbing her by the upper arms and finally breaking her tight embrace as I brusquely push past her, ignoring the stunned, slightly dismayed look she gives me. Stalking into the kitchen, I turn on the light and head straight to the cupboard where the bottle of Jack Daniels is at, opening the cupboard door and removing the bottle along with a blue glass tumbler. I unscrew the cap on the whiskey and pour some of the amber liquid into the glass, then I quickly down it with a fast flick of my wrist, the whiskey burning my throat as it goes down, making me cough slightly and my eyes water a bit. It settles warmly in my stomach, creating a small inner glow within me that does little to dim today's events.

Judy has followed me into the kitchen and stands in the doorway, watching me with a small frown of displeasure. "Pete, you know I don't like you drinking hard liquor, especially this close to bedtime," she chides, then she enters the kitchen and comes up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist and resting her head against my back.

"I'll drink whatever the hell I want, whenever the hell I want," I tell her evenly, as I pour more booze into the glass. I stand there at the counter, sipping the whiskey, my eyes landing on the saucepan atop my stove that has the same watery yellow soup in it that's in the bowl out on my coffee table, and I shudder a bit at the idea of eating it. Food doesn't sound good to me right now, but the whiskey sure does. Instead of giving Judy's hands about my waist a reassuring pat like I probably should, I keep one hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle of Jack Daniels, the other wrapped around the glass, silently resenting Judy's presence rather greatly right now, wondering how in the hell I can get her to leave in a way that doesn't hurt her feelings.

She is quiet for a moment, clearly debating whether or not to argue with me over the issue of my drinking, then she speaks, her chin resting against my back. "The bomb squad was at my house and here at your place, to check for explosive devices, Pete. Everything came out okay, but do you know how frightening that was, to see that happening and not really know why or what's going on?" Her voice sounds small and wan, and she's still apparently shaken by the fact that the bomb squad had to check her house out for any of Burnside's booby traps.

"I'm sorry, Judy. Did David see any of that?" I ask dully, not turning around to look at her, keeping my gaze fixed on the yellow tiled backsplash behind my stove, hoping like hell he didn't, for I would hate to think that he was witness to something like that, just because Judy is dating me.

"No," she says. "When I heard about the sniper shootings, I had Denise pick him up at school and take him back to her place, since I wasn't really sure what was going on. I asked her to keep him overnight for me and get him off to school in the morning, so I could be at home in case…" Her voice trails off a moment, hushed by barely-checked emotion that quavers in her tone. "In case there was some news about you or Jim. David begged me to let him stay with me, but I told him I wanted him to go with Denise, just to be on the safe side. I'll call her in a little bit and have her wake him up to tell him that you and Jim are okay." She hesitates, unsure of how to broach the next subject. "I mean, you and Jim ARE safe, right? According to the news, the sniper's been neutralized, and neither you nor Jim got hurt in the incident, did you?"

"Relatively speaking, no," I tell her dryly, taking a swallow of whiskey. "Not physically, anyway." I turn away from her then, forcing her to break contact with me once more when I move back out to the living room. I set the bottle and the glass on the low, dark wooden coffee table and I turn to her with a small scowl, intending to send her on her way so that I can finally be alone. "Look, Judy, why don't you go on home? As you can see, I'm fine. Jim's fine. We're all fine. End of story." I spread my hands out in mute supplication. "Please, just go home and let me be by myself for tonight, okay?"

"But I don't want to leave you, Pete," she says in a soft, annoying whine, standing in the middle of my living room with her arms folded across her chest, a pleading look on her face as she regards me unhappily. "Not tonight. And please don't make me." She comes over to me again, standing on tiptoe to kiss me on the lips, not noticing that I don't kiss her back, then she wraps her arms around me once more, nestling into me. "I don't wanna ever let you go, Pete," she whispers. "I'm going to hold on to you until the end of time."

I've finally had it with her damned clinginess and need to constantly touch me and hang on me. "Will you let GO of me, damn it?" I snap with sharp irritation. "I really don't want to be hugged or touched right now, Judy, can't you understand that? I'm not in the mood for it!"

She quickly drops her arms from me then and backs away from me, giving me the same wounded look from earlier, hurt welling up in her blue eyes and trickling slowly down her face. "I'm sorry," she says softly, sadly. "I just wanted to be close to you, to show you how much I love you and how glad I am you're still alive, that's all."

Feeling like a lousy fucking heel then, a stab of shame and remorse jabs at me for treating her so badly, because I know it's not really her fault she's being clingy right now, it's just a natural reaction to want to be close to someone you love, especially after an incident like today. "Look, it's not you," I tell her wearily, waving a hand at her in an attempt to make minor amends to her. "I'm not in the best of moods right now, and I'm afraid I'm not very good company tonight. I stink to high heaven, my head is killing me, every muscle in my body aches, and I'm tired as hell. All I want to get a nice hot shower in and then go to bed and sleep, and not wake up until the 1990's, at least." Picking up the tumbler of whiskey, I take one last swallow before setting the glass back down, then I turn and head into my bedroom, flicking on the overhead light. I stop at my nightstand, opening the top drawer, unclipping the off-duty weapon from my belt and tucking it into the drawer before shutting it. I could lock the drawer if I wanted to, to keep the weapon safe, but I don't feel like doing it tonight. I go over and sit down on the edge of my bed, kicking off my shoes as I work tired fingers at the buttons of my shirt.

Judy stands for a moment in the doorway, watching me silently, almost shyly, then she enters, coming over and sitting down next to me on the bed, the springs creaking softly with our combined weight. "Yes," she says with a little laugh, putting a light hand on my back as she evidently forgives me for my pissy attitude right now. "A shower would be good for you, Pete, for I have to admit, you ARE a bit on the ripe side. You smell like sweat and dust, and gunpowder and copper."

I freeze a moment, my fingers in mid-unbutton as I realize what she means with the reference to metal. "That's not copper you smell, Judy, that's blood," I tell her tersely, swinging my head around to look at her, the rather perverse comment slipping from my mouth before I can stop it. I should regret making it, but I don't, my fatigue and my stress and my irritation with her taking a toll on my conscience right now. "I've had blood all over my hands and my clothes from all the injured victims we pulled out of that park today," I tell her with a bit of anger riding my voice, holding my hands up to show her. "In fact, back at the station, I had to wash what blood I could from me before I could even come home."

She pales at the callous, uncouth remark, her eyes going wide in horror as she puts a trembling hand to her mouth. "Oh my God, how horrible, Pete! It must have been SO awful out there for you and Jim today!"

"That's putting it mildly, Judy," I tell her in annoyance as I stand up, shrugging the blue pinstriped oxford shirt from my shoulders and tossing into the wicker hamper that stands next to the bathroom door. Keeping my back turned to her, I pull the white t-shirt free from my pants and yank it off over my head, tossing it into the hamper next. I run quick fingers through the pockets of my chinos and empty them, dumping my keys, my wallet, the leather folder containing my departmental ID, my Swiss Army pocket knife, a handful of loose change, and a pack of Juicy Fruit gum onto the top of my bureau. Tugging on my watch, I pull it off of my wrist and lay it on the bureau, too, next to the dish that holds the dimes for the laundromat. I unbuckle the brown leather belt at my waist and slide it through the loops of my pants, hanging it on a bureau knob, before I unzip the fly on my pants and step out of them, throwing them into the hamper atop the other clothes. The whole time I've been undressing, I've been patently ignoring Judy, hoping that she'll take the hint of my abject silence and chilly posture, and go home, leaving me alone.

"So, maybe while you're taking a shower, I could fix you something to eat, huh?" Judy offers, breaking the stiff-necked silence, clearly ignoring my hints. "I can go warm up the soup I had earlier, if you'd like. It's chicken noodle from a can, since I didn't feel like making homemade chicken noodle soup tonight. Or I can make you a turkey sandwich."

"I'm not hungry," I tell her shortly, bracing myself against the bureau and hopping on first one foot, then the other, as I take off my socks and wad them up, throwing them into the hamper, too, making the shot quite easily for once, instead of missing the basket like I so often do.

"Maybe you will be by the time you get out of the shower, huh?" Judy says hopefully. "I mean, you've gotta eat SOMETHING, Pete."

I shrug and give her a noncommittal grunt, opening the top drawer on my bureau and pulling out a clean white t-shirt and a pair of fresh boxer shorts. I turn then to her, for once my near-nakedness not bothering her like it normally does, for the sight of me undressing in front of her makes her shy, and her shyness always makes me embarrassed, therefore I usually wind up getting undressed in the near-dark whenever I spend the night with her. "Look, Judy, I'm not kidding, I really don't want…" I begin.

"Oh my GOD!" Judy shrieks, interrupting me as she catches sight of the rather colorful, tennis-ball sized bruise that is on my chest, right over my heart. She leaps up from the bed and rushes over to me, her hands at the sides of her face in wide-eyed horror. "What in the world HAPPENED to you, Pete?" she demands, starting to reach a hand out to touch the bruise.

"Don't," I warn sharply, brusquely knocking her hand away. I shake a finger at her. "Don't touch it. It's really sore right now."

She catches sight then of the white square of bandage on my knee that covers the cut I got on the rebar. "And what happened to you there?" she asks fearfully, giving me a worried look.

"It was all injuries I got in the line of duty today," I tell her, refusing to elaborate further, for I know that if she hears how I got the bruise, she'll go to pieces, and I simply cannot deal with her emotional drama right now, it's just too much for my own already-overloaded emotions to handle. "It all looks worse than it really is. It's nothing to get bent out of shape over."

"I think I have a right to get bent out of shape," she says resolutely, wrapping her arms around my waist and snuggling into me, resting her head on my chest, careful to avoid the bruise. "Especially when my beloved Pete gets hurt like this."

"Judy, PLEASE!" I snap with heated frustration, pushing vainly at her in an attempt to free myself from her clutches. "Let GO of me so I can go get a shower!"

"Alright," she says softly, evidently taking no offense at my tone or churlish attitude. She gives me one more squeeze then she lets go of me, starting across the bedroom to the doorway leading to the living room. "Maybe you'll feel better after you've had a nice hot shower and gotten something to eat, huh?" She gives me a hopeful smile.

"I wouldn't count on it," I warn in irritation. "I'm telling you, Judy, please go home. I'm not fit company tonight at all, and I really want nothing more than to just be left alone, so I can deal with what happened today in my own way."

"But I want to help you," she protests. "I want to help you get through whatever you need to get through, in order to start healing, Pete. I'd be a very poor girlfriend if I abandoned my man in his darkest hour of need, after all."

"What I NEED is complete solitude right now," I tell her with dismayed despair. "I don't WANT you here, helping me to get through this. I can get through it on my own, thankyouverymuch."

She damnably ignores me, smiling beatifically at me. "Go get your shower, sweetie, and then we'll talk," she chirps happily. With that, she trots out to the kitchen, and moments later, I hear her banging and clattering around in there, preparing a light shnackie for me to eat when I get out of the shower.

Sighing heavily with annoyed displeasure, I grab up my old pair of sweatpants that are on the green Windsor chair in the corner next to the bureau, and I stalk into the bathroom, shutting the door and locking it behind me as I turn on the light. While I doubt Judy would dare to breech the privacy of the bathroom, I'm not taking any chances. Given her desire to cling to me now as it is, I wouldn't be at all surprised if she came in and wanted to assist me in taking a piss or soaping my back up in the shower…tasks that I OBVIOUSLY am quite capable of handling on my own. Stepping out of my boxer shorts, I lay the clean pair of boxers and sweatpants on the little metal stand that holds my towels, then I quickly use the toilet, flushing it when I'm finished. I reach into the glass-enclosed shower stall and turn on the water, twisting the knob so that the shower will get as hot as I can stand it, purely craving the steamy heat to drive the aches and pains from my sore muscles and take my weary mind from the troubles at hand.

While I wait for it to warm up, I open the mirrored medicine cabinet above the sink and search out the aspirin bottle on the shelves within. Finding it, I uncap it, dumping two white tablets out into my palm, then I replace the bottle on the shelf, turning on the cold water tap as I toss the chalky tablets into my mouth, quickly catching water in my cupped palms to wash them down with. They melt a bit on my tongue, leaving behind a sour, acidy taste that makes me grimace with disgust. Turning the cold water tap off, I focus my attention to the white square of gauze bandage on my knee, carefully picking at the tape that holds it there, wincing as it plucks and pulls at the hair on my leg, studiously working at it until the bandage is finally free from my skin. In ouchy retrospect, it might have been wiser to let the water from the shower loosen up the tape before I took the bandage off, but hindsight is often a painful twenty-twenty. I toss the square of bandage in the trashcan next to the sink, rummaging in the medicine cabinet for the metal box of bandaids that is within, locating it and searching through it to find a bandaid big enough to cover the cut on my knee. Finding one, I put the box back on the shelf and grab the white tube of first aid cream, laying the bandaid and the cream on the edge of the sink so that I can redress the wound when I get out of the shower. When I close the medicine cabinet back up, I'm careful to avoid my eyes in the mirror, unwilling yet to meet my gaze for I know I won't like what I see peering back at me from the depths of my soul. Dipping my hand under the shower stream, I determine that the water is just to my liking, so I step into the white porcelain tub, sliding the frosted glass door shut behind me, hoping like hell the shower can wash all of the day's horror from me, sending it swirling down the drain forever.

The hot, steamy water pounds and needles at me in a pleasantly sharp spray, and I draw my breath in with a hiss as the water hits both the cut on my knee and the bruise on my chest, making them sting and throb with pain. Glancing down, I notice with disgust that the water rinsing off of me and swirling down the drain is definitely grey with concrete dust and grime. Closing my eyes, I duck my head under the showerhead, and with my eyes still closed, I blindly reach for the bottle of Prell shampoo that sits on the built-in shelf in the shower stall, finding it, opening the plastic bottle and drizzling some of the thick green liquid into my palm before I set the bottle back on the shelf. I rub my palms together and sweep the shampoo through my hair, lathering the strands vigorously in a thick pouf of bubbly suds. I scratch at my scalp with my fingers, feeling the cement residue rasp against my kneading fingertips as I scrub at my skull. I duck my head under the spray again, rinsing off the foamy suds and most of the grit, but when I run my hands through my hair, I still feel little bits of dirt sliding against my hands. With a sigh, I grab up the shampoo bottle again and repeat the whole process once more, finally rinsing the dust from my hair the second time around.

Grabbing the blue washcloth that hangs on a nearby rod, I pick up the bar of Ivory soap and lather the washcloth up, scrubbing briskly at my skin, the fine particles of dust rubbing harshly against me as I try to rid myself of the grimy residue, along with the smell of cordite and blood that stubbornly clings to me. I notice with dismay that the water that rinses off of me still runs grey, so I redouble my efforts, scrubbing so hard that my skin feels raw and tingly, until the last vestiges of soap that swirl down the drain finally run clear, my to my relief. Draping the washcloth at the back of my neck, I turn around, letting the water sluice across my neck and shoulders, as I tug on the ends of the washcloth, tightening it against my neck in an effort to loosen the knot that is sitting there. Then I take the washcloth and unfold it, draping it across my palms and holding it up to my face, breathing in the fresh clean scent of laundry detergent and Ivory soap that is on the terrycloth. With the washcloth still pressed to my face, I turn back around to the shower spray, tilting my head back and letting it pound at my face, my eyes closed as I try to breathe in as much of the thick steam that I can, in an attempt to clear the thick stench of blood, death, cordite, and dust from my nose.

I'm rewarded with the sensation of something popping within my sinuses, and suddenly a thick river of gunk begins to drip down the back of my throat, nearly making me gag. Despite the fact that I know Judy wouldn't like me hocking loogies in the tub, I do just that, bringing forth and spitting out thick clots of greyish phlegm, trying to get it out of my system so that I don't end up swallowing the horrid stuff. My head rings from the exuberant effort, spinning me into a light swirl of dizziness, and I sway a bit, steadying myself with my palm pressed against the blue and white shower tiles. Hanging the washcloth back on its rod, I lower my head under the shower spray, closing my eyes as the warm water rains down on me, and I silently plead for it to purify me, to wipe clean the blackly poisoned, tainted slates of my heart and my soul and my mind, but all it does is start to turn lukewarm on me, then chilly, and with a small yip of dismay, I quickly turn the shower off before I freeze to death. I stand there for a moment in the tub, dripping and cold and shivering, then I slide the glass door open and step out into the steam-filled bathroom, grabbing a plush green towel from a nearby rack and wrapping myself into it, savoring the warmth it provides me.

There is a knock at the door and the knob rattles, startling me a bit. "Pete, are you okay in there?" Judy calls, sounding concerned. "You've been in there for awhile now, and I'm getting a little worried."

"I'm fine," I call back wearily, sighing with irritation as I realize that she's still here. "I'll be out in a few minutes."

"Good," she says through the door. "I've got something fixed for you to eat when you do." There's a hesitation, then she rattles the knob again. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asks.

"I'm fine, damn it!" I snap in frustration. "I'll be out in a little bit!" I hear her plod away from the door then, and I begin to briskly dry myself off, my muscles still aching a bit but not as bad as before, while the aspirin has started to kick in and ease the headache that pounds at my temples. When I finish drying off, I hang the towel back up on the rack, then I whisk a comb through my damp hair and quickly and mechanically brush my teeth at the sink, the minty taste of the toothpaste taking the bitter taste of phlegm from my mouth. I slap some first aid cream onto the cut and then cover it with the fresh bandaid, then I get dressed, slipping on the clean boxers first, then the sweatpants, pulling the t-shirt on over my head. Grabbing up the dirty boxers, I unlock the bathroom door and step barefooted out into my bedroom. I glance around for Judy as I throw my dirty shorts in the hamper, but she's evidently returned to the living room, so I reluctantly trudge out there, finding her seated on the couch, watching the tv once more.

She looks up as I enter the room. "Did your shower help you any?" she asks with a smile. "I sure hope so, honey. You're kind of being a bear tonight."

"Some, I guess," I tell her with a nonchalant shrug, slipping into my brown recliner instead of the couch, still not wanting to be close to Judy right now. I note with a bit of relief that she hasn't dumped out my glass of whiskey and I reach over, picking it up and taking a swallow of it, settling back into the recliner, resting the glass on my stomach with my hand wrapped around it. "And I think I'm allowed to be a bit of a bear, in light of today's hellish experiences," I say a bit dourly.

She gives me a hurt look when I sit down in the recliner. "Don't you want to sit next to me?" she whines. "I won't bite, I promise."

"Yeah, but I might," I tell her humorlessly. "Given the mood I'm in."

She cocks her head. "It sounded like you were…uh…spitting phlegm in the shower," she says with a tiny frown. "Were you?"

I shrug. "So what if I was?" I snark. "It's my damned tub, I can do whatever the hell I want in it."

She screws up her face in abject disgust. "But that's just nasty, Pete, hocking and spitting like that."

"My sinuses popped and started draining while I was in the shower," I tell her a bit snidely. "And I sure as hell wasn't going to swallow the crap that was draining down."

Having cleared away her mess that was in my living room, Judy points to one of my blue-flowered china plates and matching bowl that are sitting on the coffee table, the plate containing a turkey sandwich on white bread, while the bowl contains steaming chicken noodle soup…from a can. "I made you some soup and a sandwich," she offers helpfully, giving me a shy little smile. "Maybe you should try to eat something, huh? I don't imagine you've had very much to eat today, after all."

"I'm not hungry," I tell her with rising irritation. Resolutely, I fix my gaze on the muted flickering images of the tv, the channel turned to channel twelve, California's Public Televison station, Judy's favorite, because it's SO educational. I stare sightlessly at the program, not really giving a goddamned as to what it's about, but hoping like hell Judy will take the hint and LEAVE, before my thoroughly pissy attitude gets even worse than it already is, and I wind up taking it out on her more than I already have. Her concern and her desire to be with me right now is touching, to be sure, but it's getting goddamned annoying, in a sickly, cloying way.

"Well, but maybe you should still try to eat something anyway," she tells me, matter-of-factly. "Even if you're not hungry, Pete. You need to get something solid in your stomach."

"I have," I reply in a short tone of voice, holding up the glass of whiskey as I flick my gaze to her. "I've got some whiskey and a couple of aspirin in my stomach."

"But Pete…" she starts to protest.

"Look, Judy, I'm NOT hungry," I say sharply. "And after what I saw out there today, it's no goddamned wonder, either. Hell, I may NEVER get my appetite back after today."

She falls silent then and looks down at her hands, nervously twisting the little gold-and-ruby ring that is on her right ring finger, a birthday gift from her deceased husband. "What was it like out there, Pete?" she finally asks in a tiny little voice, keeping her gaze fixed firmly on her ring. "I mean, what was it REALLY like?"

I stare at her for a moment, stunned and sickened that she'd even have the nerve to ask me that, knowing that I can't, nor would I, reveal the details of an open case. "Judy, I can't answer that, the investigation is still ongoing," I tell her, anger at her ballsy inquiry prickling just beneath my surface, threatening to explode. "I cannot disclose the details of an active case like that to you, and you should know better than to even ASK me that."

"I…I don't want the details of the investigation, Pete," she says softly, giving me a worried, sorrowful look. "I just want to know what it was like…I mean, was it scary, was it awful, was it gruesome…what did you experience out there today?"

I lean forward in my seat and fix her with an icy glare, realizing that she wants to hear the gory details of what I went through, like every other goddamned woman I've ever dated, firmly denying their interest in the minutiae of my job, while avidly hungering for the salacious, gossipy details that will satisfy their secretly morbid curiosities. "Okay, you wanna know what it was fucking like out there, Judy?" I ask angrily, muted rage crackling in my voice. I ignore the wince she gives at the word 'fucking' and continue, my tone rising. "You REALLY wanna know what it was like? It was sheer fucking Hell, Judy, sheer fucking Hell. A lot of innocent people DIED out there at the hands of a madman, and Jim Reed, John Gage, and I had to go in to try and rescue them, and now I DON'T want to discuss it with you any further, got it?" I stare at her, my eyes meeting hers in clear defiance, daring her to protest or push me any further on the subject.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry," she offers regretfully, still twisting the ring. "I…I just had to ask, so I could get an idea of what you went through, in hopes of helping you to cope." Then she points to the gear bag that is on the floor beneath my jacket hanging on the wall. "I unpacked your bag for you," she says a bit proudly, gesturing to my gear that she has carefully laid out on a newspaper on the floor next to the bag. "I figured you'd want to clean the dust and dirt off of them before you wear them again."

"Thanks," I tell her shortly, flicking my gaze back to the tv set again, not entirely grateful for her kind gesture, for I dislike it when she roots through my stuff without my permission. As intensely private as I am, I consider it an intrusion. "I could have done that myself, you know."

"I know, but I wanted to do it for you, Pete," she says hesitantly. "I figured that way, you didn't have to worry about getting your gear bag unpacked tonight."

"Yeah, I suppose," I tell her a bit grudgingly. I admit, I'm ashamed of my churlish attitude right now, for while it's always a given that whatever hell you endure on the job, it stays at the station and you don't bring it home to your family, but that's a helluva lot easier to preach than practice. And Judy's refusal to leave me alone, despite my utmost wish that she do, only serves to annoy me further, for she evidently doesn't grasp, or doesn't WANT to grasp the idea that I want privacy and solitude right now, in order to deal with what I've seen and experienced today.

She gives me a curious look, frowning slightly. "Funny thing is though, I didn't find your badge anywhere in the bag. Did you lose it or did it somehow get damaged today?"

"No, it's…" I begin, then I stop, for I don't want Judy to know that I've quit the force, the only job I've had for the last fourteen years, the only job I've ever really known. I know she'd be supremely happy with the news, but I'm sure as hell in no mood right now to make Judy happy. "I left it back at the station, that's all." Which really isn't TOO much of a lie, if you stop and think about it, because I DID leave it back at the station…albeit on Mac's desk and with the threat that I've quit.

"Oh," she says, wisely deciding to leave it at that, much to my relief. She clears her throat. "By the way, you had two phone calls earlier while I was waiting here for you to come home."

"Oh?" I ask flatly, unable to drum up any curiosity or enthusiasm. "From whom?"

"One was from your mom," she replies. "They heard about the sniper on the news up in Seattle, and she wanted to know if you were okay. You should probably call her and let her know that you're alright, Pete, she was pretty worried."

"I'll do it tomorrow," I brush her off. "It's too late to call them now, and my dad will have a fit if I bother them this late at night, just to assure them of my well-being." There is a strong note of bitterness in my voice when I speak, a bitterness I cannot help, and Judy gives me a quizzical look, unaware of the dynamics within the Malloy family, for I haven't introduced her to them yet, the dynamics OR my parents. "Who was the other phone call from?" I ask tiredly, rubbing absentmindedly at my forehead.

"Some woman named Evie Donnelly," she says. "She gave me a number for you to call her back at; it's a Seattle number, I think."

I frown slightly at the mention of Evie's name, wondering why Evie had called me. "Did she say what she wanted?" I ask cautiously.

Judy shakes her head. "No, she just wanted you to call her and let her know you were okay, that's all. She said she was a friend of yours from back in the day, and she'd heard the news about the sniper, too, and was worried that you were involved." Judy's face creases with concern as she gives me a slightly uneasy look. "Who is she, Pete?" she asks carefully, not hiding her curiosity at all. "I don't remember you saying anything about an old friend named Evie Donnelly from back when you still lived in Seattle."

"That's because she's ancient history," I tell Judy grimly, but I refuse to tell her any further, that Evie is my ex-wife, for I haven't felt like revealing that part of my past yet to Judy. For one thing, I don't feel like the two of us are quite at the 'reveal all' part of our relationship; and for another thing, I have a sneaking suspicion that Judy might be jealous of the life I once shared with Evie, even though that life has been over for a long, long time.

"Speaking of making phone calls, I did call Denise while you were in the shower, so she could wake David up and tell him that you and Jim were okay," Judy says, sliding the plate containing the sandwich across the table to in front of me. "At least try to eat a little bit of something for me, okay, Pete?" she urges gently.

I study her for a moment, realizing that she's going to keep harping at me to eat unless I make an attempt, so heaving a weary sigh, I lean forward and pick up half of the sandwich and begin to nibble unenthusiastically at it, in hopes of shutting her up.

Judy watches me with a delighted smile as I pick half-heartedly at the food. "I put tomato and mayo and lettuce on your sandwich," she tells me happily, as if I don't already know. "It's nothing to write home about, I'm sure, but at least it's something for you to eat. And maybe when you finish it, you'll want the soup. If it's cooled down, I can warm it up again."

"Yeah, maybe," I tell her noncommittally, lacking the desire to engage in any conversation with her. We lapse into an uncomfortable silence, as she watches me eat and I stare blindly at the tv without the flashing, muted images registering on my brain, wishing her gone.

"Well, I heard about the sniper shootings on the radio at school during recess, while I was in the teachers' lounge taking my coffee break," she says finally, clearly trying to dispel the uneasy atmosphere between us. "When they said that the S.W.A.T. team was being mobilized, I knew that you and Jim were likely going to be involved in some capacity. And then when the bomb squad…"

I hold my hand up to stop her. "Judy, PLEASE," I grumble. "I do NOT want to hear anything or discuss anything about what happened today, got it?"

She studies me for a moment, then she nods, standing up from the couch. I feel a brief glimmer of hope as I think perhaps she's finally going to leave, but she picks up the paper napkin she put next to the sandwich plate, unfolding it as she comes over to me, tucking it into the collar of my shirt with a patting, motherly air. "There," she says with a smile, stepping back a bit to inspecting her handiwork. "You're getting crumbs on your shirt, dear. And you don't want to go to bed with crumbs now, do you?" Instead of returning to the couch, she sits down on the arm of my chair, draping an arm around my neck and shoulder. "Gee, you're sure not much for conversation tonight, are you, honey?" she asks with a nervous chuckle, stroking a strand of damp hair away from my face with her fingers.

"I told you I wasn't in the mood for company," I tell her with irritation, ducking away from her touch once more. "I really would rather be left alone right now, Judy, to be totally honest with you."

"Maybe," she says. "And maybe you need someone by your side right now, more than ever." She leans over, kissing me on the top of my head. "What say after you finish eating, we get into bed and snuggle? We don't have to have…uh…DO anything if you don't want, dearest," she offers, blushing slightly. "Romance-wise, I mean. We'll just get under the covers and hold one another, that's all."

"No," I tell her firmly, shaking my head, putting the remains of the sandwich down on the plate. Snuggling with Judy is the LAST thing I want to do on God's green earth, for I'd rather eat tinfoil and wood splinters, rather than be close to her right now. "I'm not going to bed just yet, and when I do, it's going to be alone."

"But you just said earlier that you were really tired, and all you wanted to do was get a shower and go to bed," she protests a bit. "And I took a vacation day from school, just so I could spend tomorrow with you, since I know you're on paid leave right now, pending the outcome of the investigation into this incident. We can sleep in as late as you like, and I can make you waffles in the morning, and in the afternoon, maybe we can take in a show…"

"Judy, I'm going to be really busy tomorrow," I tell her with sharp-edged frustration, as I realize that she views my paid leave as some sort of vacation from my job, instead of what it really is…work, but without the steady hours of the usual shifts. As long as we've been dating, too, you'd think she'd know that, but apparently not. "I won't have much time at all to spend with you, I'm afraid. I've got to attend a news conference tomorrow morning, and then afterwards, we have a S.W.A.T. team debriefing with Sergeant Baron, and I don't know how long I'll be dealing with those two events. And I'm sure that there will be more meetings in the hours and days to come, with the departmental brass and the feds, since they've now been called in to help get a handle on this whole fucking mess."

"Pete," she chides with a wince. "You know I don't like you swearing."

I stare at her for a moment, anger flickering within me at her prissy attitude, threatening to ignite once more. "Judy, it's been one helluva long, fucking, shitty-ass day, so I'm entitled to say whatever the hell I want. If you don't like it, there's the door…use it, goddamnit," I tell her with annoyance, gesturing to the door with my hand and glaring at her.

She gives me a slightly hurt pout, then she sighs, shaking her head. "I suppose I can forgive your use of foul language this one time, given the extreme circumstances of today's events," she says. She points to the remains of the sandwich on the plate and the soup grown cold in the bowl atop the coffee table. "Is that all you're going to eat?" she asks with mild dismay.

"I told you I wasn't hungry, Judy," I tell her, plucking the napkin from the front of my shirt and wiping my mouth on it, then I wad it up and drop it onto the plate.

"But you didn't eat very much," she observes. "Not even enough to fill a bird up, honey. You'll be getting hungry in the middle of the night, you wait and see, and then you'll be rooting through the refrigerator in search of something to eat."

"It already IS the middle of the night," I point out. "And I keep telling you, I'm not…"

"Yes, I know, you're not hungry," she sighs, sounding a bit irritated with me, the first sign that my pissy attitude is beginning to wear on her. She stands up from her seat on the arm of my chair and picks up the plate and the bowl. "I guess I'll go throw these out, if you're not going to eat any more than that." She gestures to the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table and the glass tumbler I still clutch in my hand. "Are you done with those?" she asks.

"No," I tell her, shaking my head. "I'm not."

"Well, at least let me take the bottle of whiskey back out to the kitchen and put it away," she says with annoyance. "I mean, surely you're not going to drink yourself into a stupor tonight, are you, Pete?"

"And what if I am?" I challenge, giving her a defiant look. "It's my apartment, Judy, and I can do whatever the hell I want in it, including getting shitfaced drunk, if I feel like it." I take a swallow of whiskey, as if daring her to deny me my rights within my own apartment.

She studies me for a second, a frown twitching about her thinly pursed lips, then without another word, she turns and carries the dirty dishes into the kitchen. Moments later, I hear her running water in order to rinse the plate and the bowl out, the sound of her stacking them in the dish drainer to dry making a clattering, clashing noise.

While she's busy in the kitchen, I get up from the recliner, my drink still in my hand, and go over to the tv set, turning the channel off of whatever the hell boring crap it is that's playing on public tv and onto channel five, hoping to find out what out movie is playing on Late Night Cinema. The channel is on a commercial break, so I sit down on the edge of the low-slung wooden coffee table to await the end of the break.

Judy returns from the kitchen and spies me there, coming over to stand next to me, draping her arm around my shoulder once more as she bends down and nuzzles her face against my damp hair. "C'mon, sweetie," she wheedles gently, lightly trailing her nails against the back of my neck, playing with the hair at my nape. "There's nothing to watch on television, so let's go to bed, okay?"

I shake her off. "You know I don't like you hanging on me when I'm trying to watch tv," I grumble irritably.

"Fine," she snaps, going over and sitting on the couch instead, folding her arms across her chest with a huff, giving me a dirty look. "You certainly are not in the best of moods tonight. Maybe I SHOULD go home and leave you to yourself."

"So what's stopping you?" I reply sourly, giving her a sharp glare of my own before staring once more at the tv set, my drink clutched tightly in my hand. "I told you I didn't want company tonight, yet you persist in staying here, for some damned reason that I can't understand."

"That's because I'm TRYING to be a good, loving girlfriend to you," she says tightly. "And to be here to comfort you after such an awful day."

I hold the drink up with a mirthless smile. "This is all the comfort I need right now," I tell her tersely, then I notice with relief that the commercials finally end and the show returns, apparently an action thriller about…about…what the hell? With slow dawning horror, I realize that what I'm watching is not an action thriller, but news footage taken of today's sniper situation.

"It's the news, Pete, and surely you don't want to watch that, do you?" Judy immediately protests.

"Why are they showing the news this late, anyway? It's after eleven o'clock." I murmur in shock. I stare at the muted images, for I have no desire whatsoever to turn the volume up to see what the bubbled-headed bleach blonde reporters, Christy Roberts and Bob Anders, are saying about the incident, their professionally emotionless faces already telling me that they are clearly more thrilled with revealing the salacious and gory details of Burnside's dastardly attack to the avidly curious public, rather than focusing in on the lives he's so brutally damaged and ripped apart. But I know that by tomorrow, they will have snagged a juicy interview or two or ten with the wounded survivors of the attack, along with the mourning relatives of the deceased, just to trot those poor peoples' wretched emotions out for rabid public consumption.

"Pete, all the local channels have gone to live continuing coverage since about five o'clock this afternoon, after it became apparent that what was happening out on Granite Court was really serious," Judy tells me softly. "They're trying to keep the public updated as to what is going on. They keep rerunning the same footage they shot earlier, over and over again, along with the press conference Mayor Bradley held at around seven this evening." Leaning forward, she puts a hand on my arm, giving me a worried look. "Surely you don't want to see this, do you? Knowing you like to watch a little tv before going to bed, I purposely turned it over to Public Television on channel twelve, so you hopefully wouldn't catch a glimpse of the news footage. I thought it would bother you if you saw the images the reporters were able to get."

"Why the hell not?" I snap, angrily shaking her hand off of me. "I've witnessed all the fucking horror of today from the inside, why not see what the rest of the world saw on the outside?" Resolutely, I defiantly turn my gaze back to the tv and watch the muted images of hell playing out before me from an outsider's perspective with somewhat perverse interest. First there's a shot from the ground, from the corner of Adamson Avenue and Oaktree Drive, looking east down the street towards the Granite Court area, the houses of Shale Court on the right, with the Office Furniture Warehouse and the AutoZip used car lot on the left, while the parking ramp for the Granite Court building is in the near distance. The snouts of Adam-12 and Engine 51 can just barely be seen poking through at the intersection of Adamson and Palmtree, while neither the crew of Engine 51 or Reed and I can be visualized, for we're clearly standing well out of range of the camera. The shot was evidently taken fairly early on in the attack, for there are no street barricades erected yet, just the squad car of Adam-11 pulled across the intersection and halting traffic, as Bob Brinkman and Dave Russo work crowd control, their faces grim and determined as they stroll the line, keeping everyone behind the fluttering yellow crime scene tape that is strung from their car over to two telephone poles that are on opposite sides of the street. In the distance, the Armadillo rumbles slowly past, heading back into Burnside's battlefield with Gage, Reed, and I aboard, and the camera quickly zooms in on the rig like a bee lighting upon a flower, the gunmetal grey hull of the rig flashing a blinding silver in the bright sunlight. I wonder with morbid fascination at what point during the rescues that shot was taken, for I know it wasn't too long into the rescue ops that the fire truck was pulled across the intersection in an attempt to block the media from taking shots of the rig as it exited the battlefield. There's a brief shot of both the owner of the used car lot and the manager of the furniture warehouse giving an interview to the reporters, along with some random shots taken from the other perimeters set up, these of various ambulances and other rescue vehicles arriving at the scene. But those shots are quick, for apparently Mac put the order out to the cops standing sentry at the main arteries of Morris and Palmtree, Morris and Oaktree, and Adamson and Pinetree, to keep the media and the public from clustering there while the action was still ongoing, to prevent anyone from impeding emergency traffic or getting camera shots of the victims and the rescue ops.

The footage then jumps to aerial images taken by Channel Five's helicopter before Mac ordered them out of Air Ten's airspace, the chopper and the camera swinging over the lush green grass of Granite Park, and I realize with sickening horror that you can clearly bodies of the dead and wounded littering the grass like bright broken ragdolls, their stuffing spilling out in clots of bright red. "Oh my God," I murmur thickly, wondering just how in the fuck they were able to get that close without Burnside shooting them out of the sky, then it occurs to me that maybe he didn't want to, that maybe he wanted the gory publicity, to cap off his going out in a blaze of glory. The aerial footage still rolling, the camera pans across the street below the Granite Court building, showing to the public the carnage and horror that lay there on that white pavement that ran violently red with the spilled blood of innocents. The camera isn't close enough for the viewer to really ascertain any minute details of the dead and wounded, but still, I would hate like hell for a family member of someone that was a victim of Burnside's attack to see this footage and know that their loved ones were suffering or dead. I'm actually surprised that the station didn't edit that footage out and chose to show it as is instead, for it's tasteless and tactless and downright disgusting; but then again, so's the goddamned news media, preying on the freshly slain carcasses of today's tragedy like the greedy vultures they are. They're probably thinking of winning the Pulitzer Prize with this story, earning it on the stacked bodies of the dead, the wounds of the survivors, and the tears of the family members left to mourn their loved ones. "Goddamn," I mutter, closing my eyes, sickened by what I see. "Goddamn it all to fucking hell."

"Turn it off, Pete," Judy implores me, and I can hear the tears in her voice. "Please, just turn it off. You don't need to see this, honey, not at all."

I ignore her, opening my eyes and fixing them on the tv once more, unable to tear myself away from the gruesome images playing silently out before me. There's one final distant aerial shot, evidently taken as the chopper was leaving the area, this one of Burnside standing on the roof of the Granite Court building, the rifle looking toy-like and harmless on the tripod he has it attached to, and he stands there passively, watching the chopper leave before he leans back over the rifle once more, focusing in on continuing his murderous rampage once more. I swear to God it looks like he's smiling, but the shot is too far off for me to really tell; however, knowing Burnside, he probably WAS smiling, delighted with all the terror and chaos he was creating.

Then the action picks up at footage of the medical teams setting up the triage area in the empty lot behind the furniture warehouse store, the doctors and nurses hurrying around in their green scrubs as they set up the necessary equipment in order to try and save the lives of those wounded by Burnside. Ambulances sit idly by in the backround, so this footage was evidently taken before we started bringing the injured victims in. The camera pans up to show a blue and white medevac chopper landing in the triage field, then I see Chet Kelly, Mike Stoker, and Marco Lopez unrolling and draping long sections of grey-brown tarp across the chain link fence that surrounds the vacant lot, ostensibly to keep the nosy media from getting a glimpse of the hell that was triage, once the wounded started coming in from the battlefield. As the news camera of Channel Five is rolling, still focused on the now hidden triage area, a man carrying a news camera with the logo of Channel Two's On-The-Spot Coverage hurries over to the fence and kneels down on the ground, carefully aiming the camera at a small, one-foot-sized space near the bottom of the fence that the tarp hasn't quite covered, with the intent of getting a shot of the frenzied attempts to save lives in the triage area. Brinkman runs over and viciously yanks the man to his feet and brusquely shoves him back behind the barricades and crime-scene tape, clearly yelling at him all the while. "Good going, Brink," I toast my compatriot with grim amusement, downing the rest of my whiskey with a healthy swallow, hiccupping and wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, holding the now-empty glass loosely in my fingers. "I'd have kicked that guy's ass all the way back to the barricades, AND busted the camera for him with my bare hands," I mutter, watching as the camera then shows the ambulances leaving the scene with the wounded aboard, their sirens screaming soundlessly, their lights flashing frantically, then a shot shows one of the medevac choppers taking off from triage, swinging low over the crowd and kicking up gritty dust as it banks and heads towards one of the hospitals.

"Pete, how much more of this are you going to watch?" Judy says from the couch, and I risk a glance over at her, seeing the tears rolling quietly down her face as she gives me an imploring look. She dabs at her face with a hanky. "This can't be good for you to see this, honey. It was bad enough you lived it, I don't understand why…"

"SHH!" I hiss sharply, turning my gaze back to the silent tv once more. The footage transitions back to the Adamson/Oaktree area, this time showing the crowds standing behind the barricades, Channel Five's Action News Reporter, Christopher England speaking stone-faced and grimly to the viewers watching the horror unfold from home, then the camera suddenly jerks and jars violently, panning first up to the bright blue sky overhead, then back down to the pavement, then to the crowds as they flee in terror westward down Adamson, the camera bouncing rather sickeningly as the cameraman and the reporter also flee, the faces of the people etched sharply with panic and fear. The camera halts then and swings back around to the Granite Court area, showing a huge grey-white-black cloud of dust mushrooming menacingly up into the bright blue sky, the blown-up parking ramp now reduced to collapsed rubble in the distance, Engine 51 completely obscured from view by both the rubble and the dust. "Jesus Christ," I murmur in awe, running a hand down my face as I stare at the excited Christopher England as he tries to convey to the anchor desk and the viewers at home just what in the hell happened.

"Okay, I think you've seen enough," Judy says sharply, starting to reach over and turn the tv off.

"Leave it on, damn it!" I snap at her angrily, pushing her hand away. With the fire engine crushed down by the rubble, the street is somewhat visible once more behind the spewing water main that broke in the explosion, and there's a quick glimpse of the group of firefighters from Station 51 hurrying along the cement-strewn pavement, the stokes holding Captain Stanley being carried between them; then there's another shot, this one of Reed rushing towards the Granite Court building, his rifle clutched in his hands, and seconds later, I chase after him, holding my own rifle, as we bravely go into battle that one last time in order to kill Burnside, nearly meeting our own deaths when we did. There's another shot of us in the deepening twilight, as we trudge wearily back to the command post, the crowd behind Christopher England cheering and clapping for us like we're celebrities or rock stars, simply because we killed a man today. A night shot from Adamson and Oaktree is next, the floodlights brightening up the Granite Court area like it's high noon, the beams still scattered with hazy, drifting dust, while the geysering water main continues to erupt mightily in the foreground. In the cracked glass windows of the badly-damaged Office Furniture Warehouse, the emergency lights of the squad cars of Adam-11 and Adam-12 glow and wink brightly, startling red and yellow flashes of color in the grey, colorless night. Farther off in the distance, at Adamson and Chicory, the headlights and emergency lights of Adam-14 shine, the red top lights looking eerily like glowing demon eyes of a Devil that is regarding the entire tragic mess with malicious glee and pleasure.

Then there's a shot of the black refrigerated truck that was pressed into service by the Medical Examiner's Office, the semi headlights sweeping across the hanging dust and picking out bright puddles of water that remain from the now-shut off water main, and I can see various detectives crossing the street, going into the park in order to begin the tedious and terrible task of identifying and removing the bodies of the deceased. I see a small clump of men going into the area, too, and with a start, I realize it's Sergeant Friday, Bill Gannon, Captain Moore, Jim Reed, and I, returning to the Granite Court building in order to begin putting together Charlie Burnside's dark final moments on this earth. There's a shot of the outside of Central Station, Val's dark unmarked car pulling silently into the driveway, followed by the unmarked grey Ford sedan of Friday and Gannon, while another shot shows the outside of Rampart Hospital and Central Receiving, those two shots taken during the daylight yet. The scene then shifts to the hasty news conference that was held at City Hall earlier, by Mayor Tom Bradley, Police Chief Edward Davis, and Sheriff Peter Pitchess, all three men looking rather grim as they begin to address the news media and the public, their lips moving in silent words of solace and comfort, reassuring the public that the rescues of the wounded have been successful, the bad man has been ultimately killed, and now all that is left for the city to do is pick up the shattered pieces, mourn for a bit, and then go on, hoping that what horror happened out there on Granite Court today will soon be just a distant memory. I stare at the three somber-faced men with utter disgust, thoroughly despising them, for they offer meaningless words of compassion and comfort to the wounded and families of the dead, meaningless words of praise and commendation for the 'heroes' involved, and other meaningless words that are designed to assure Joe Q. Public that while what happened here is indeed a horrific tragedy, the city and it's brave citizens will prevail and eventually recover.

Reaching over, I turn the tv off with a violent click of the dial. Wordlessly I sit there, glaring at the blank grey screen, turning the empty glass tumbler over and over in my shaking hands, my grim-faced image reflected back to me in the curved glass of the set, utterly seething with sick indignation and righteous white-hot anger. Infuriated, I consider the images I've just seen, all trotted out so casually for the morbidly curious public, as if it's nothing more than a lengthy commercial for committing murder via sniper attack, or some sick fucking movie that only a diseased mind could think up. I'm pissed right now…pissed at the greedy, vulture-like media for preying so readily on the tragedy, offering up the footage and various shots like a grotesque smorgasboard of horror; pissed at the talking heads of Mayor Tom Bradley, Police Chief Ed Davis, and Los Angeles County Sheriff Peter Pitchess for acting so grim and concerned, pretending to sympathize as if they knew what it was like out there in Hell, when not a single goddamned one of them even bothered to come out to the horrible fucking scene to SEE what it was like…but most of all, I'm pissed at that miserable little fuck Charlie Burnside, for taking his pissy little problems and his misplaced rage and his goddamned fucking gun up onto the roof of the Granite Court building in the first place, using the innocent people in the park below to vent his anger upon, shooting them down like they were nothing more than clay pigeons or ducks in a shooting gallery. My emotions roil and tumble violently inside of me, anger, sorrow, hatred and disgust fighting for domination within me, all of the emotions so strong, they're nearly overpowering.

"Pete," Judy says quietly, leaning forward to touch my arm once more, tears running down her face as she regards me solemnly, concern written all over her features. "Are you okay?"

And Judy's unwanted presence is the final fucking straw…I cannot deal with myself right now, let alone her. "Get out," I tell her in a low, menacing growl, for I know that if she doesn't leave right now, I will turn my anger and my rage and my deep dark sorrow upon her, using her to vent in a way that would make her hate me forever…not by physical brute violence, for I would never EVER hit a woman, but by throwing angry, lashing, stinging words of hurt and hatred at her. And I know from my own experiences, that words often hurt worse than physical abuse, for they linger in the brain and the memory and the self-confidence, long after the bruises of physical force have faded away, popping up in jeering, ghostly echoes when you least need them.

"I'm not leav…" she begins.

"I said 'Get out'," I warn again, putting more menace in my tone to make an impression on her that if she doesn't leave NOW, both of us will regret it. I turn to look at her, my eyes flashing dangerously with rage. "If you know what's good for you, Judy, get out."

"But Pete, I don't want to…" she starts, worry on her face.

That does it, I finally snap. "GET OUT!" I scream at her, my white-hot anger rapidly flushing my face, reddening it in a fevered heat. "GET OUT, GODDAMNIT, JUST GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!" Enraged, nearly blinded senseless by my anger, my resentment, my black-souled sorrow, I throw the empty blue glass tumbler I'm still holding in my hand as hard as I can against the door of my apartment with a shattering crash, the glass exploding wildly upon impact, the shards scattering to lie winking upon the brown shag carpeting.

"PETE!" Judy cries in shock, leaping to her feet from the couch, her eyes wide with fear. "What is WRONG with you?" She reaches a hand out to touch me, but I flinch away.

I come to my feet then, my hands clenched in tight fists of rage as I turn on Judy, my pulse pounding a jungle-drum tattoo madly inside of my head, my blood boiling violently in my veins. "GET OUT!" I snarl, glaring at her through slitted eyes. "JUST GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, JUDY!" My hands at my sides automatically clench and unclench with my anger, my breath rasps harshly in my throat in gasping pants. "I don't want you here!" I growl hoarsely. "Can't you understand that, goddamnit? I DON'T WANT YOU HERE!"

She stares at me for a moment in open-mouthed horror, tears still streaming down her face, then with a harsh, choking sob, she rushes to grab her coat and purse from the peg on the wall next to my jacket. She quickly unlocks the front door, yanking it open, her feet crushing the remains of the glass tumbler into the carpet with a crunching sound, then with a hard slam of the door, she is gone, her hurried footsteps echoing a moment on the balcony before fading away.

I stand there in my living room, breath heaving, staring wildly at the door, knowing that I should go after her and tell her I'm sorry, but damn it, I can't, I just can't. I didn't want her here in the first place, and despite my efforts to try to get her to leave, she persisted in staying, and so now I can't help but feel this is partially her fault. But she certainly didn't deserve my rage and my angry outburst just now, and I know I'll wind up begging forgiveness from her in the hopes that she'll grant it. With a heavy sigh, I go into the kitchen and grab the plastic garbage can, returning to the living room in order to pick up the shards of sharp glass from the broken tumbler. Kneeling on the floor, I pick the pieces up carefully, trying not to cut myself in the process, and when I have the larger chunks picked up, I return to the kitchen and get a dampened paper towel to pick up the smaller shards. As I'm pressing the wet paper towel to the carpet, I feel a sharp sting as a small sliver of glass somehow manages to prick my palm, not deeply or seriously, just enough to cause a bit of blood to well up in bright red beads across my hand. With a weary groan, I sit back on my haunches to study the cut, swiping the sticky beads of crimson away with my thumb, watching as more beads ooze to the surface of my skin, glittering and brilliant. I stare at it with unseeing eyes…my blood…their blood…so much blood of the innocents slaughtered today in Burnside's massacre…And suddenly, just like that, I am back in Hell once more, the images flickering gruesomely before my blind-struck eyes, playing out like a horror movie before me…

CLICK

…the young teenage girl leaping back out of the Armadillo in order to retrieve her purse that she left behind; Burnside's bullet blossoming into a red flower on the t-shirt over her heart, her black hair flashing out behind her as she crumples to the ground; Johnny Gage leaping out of the Armadillo to try and save her, refusing to leave her, even though he knows beyond hope that she's dead on the pavement; he rages at Jim and I after we force him back aboard the Armadillo for leaving her behind, while her friend sobs in terror in the back of the rig…

CLICK

…the terrified preschool children being handed to me, one by one by one, their little faces pale with shock and terror, some of them so gruesomely injured that it's a wonder they have even survived this far; their warm blood slipping and sliding across my hands and coating my palms and fingers like…like chocolate syrup as I place them as gently as I can in the back of the rig; and their eyes…wide, frightened eyes with a world-weary, thousand yard stare that is much too old for children that young …it's their eyes that stick with me the most as they try hard to comprehend in their childlike minds just why in the hell their happy trip to the park turned into the picnic from Hell, just because Charlie Burnside decided to end all that was good in their short little lives with his goddamned rifle and his goddamned rage… 

CLICK

… Jim Reed gently cradling the gravely injured little girl in his arms, her tiny body bloodied, her small arm hanging just by the stringy sinews and tissue at her shoulder, the bone poking up splintered through her pale skin; then her head suddenly explodes in a mess of grey, white, and red, splattering all over Jim's vest, and spraying in a fine mist of gore into the air behind him; he drops to the ground with a sharp gasp, making me fear that Burnside has shot him, too, and he refuses to put her limp form down until I finally take her shattered body from his arms and lay her on the soft grass myself, as Burnside's bullets whiz over our heads, reminding us that he's still up there, like a malicious, mythic god; I grab Reed by the vest and shove him into the rig, knowing that he hates me for making him leave the dead girl behind, but he hates Burnside even more for doing this, and God even worse than that, for allowing such a tragedy like this to happen in the first place…

CLICK

…the gentle voice of Johnny as he tries vainly to soothe the whimpering, frightened preschoolers in the back of that hot and stinking Armadillo, the calm and compassion in his voice making me realize that he is one helluva guy for braving the danger, just to do what I already know he's mighty damned good at, and that's saving lives; while the kids huddle in the rig, whining like whipped puppies, the stench strong of blood and piss and shit and vomit; the preschool teachers just as frightened as the kids, unable to process in their adult minds what sheer Hell they've walked into; the young teacher slapping me on the face and spitting on me as I help her out of the rig once we arrive back at the triage area, her fear and her anger directed not at me, but at the evil man who has perpetrated all this horror with such cold, calculating decisiveness…

CLICK

…the badly injured college kid that has his guts hanging out of the open wound in his belly, the slithery pale intestines looking so much like a coiled snake swathed in red blood; Johnny's assurance that the kid is still alive and will make it back to triage, so we load him onto the rig, trying vainly to keep his innards from spilling out of his body as we move him, but it's too much, for he dies in the back of the Armadillo before we even leave the battlefield, twitching once on that hard metal floor that is slicked with blood, his soul leaving his body as the teenaged girl in the rig realizes she's looking right at Death and begins to scream shrilly, frantically, her cries of stark terror and shock ringing stridently within the tight confines of the rig, bouncing eerily off of the metal sides like a scream for the end of the world…

With a low despairing moan, I come to my feet and back slowly away from the door, as if that will make the horror movie stop. Closing my eyes and swaying a bit on my feet, I press my fingers to my temples, rubbing there, trying to scour the images away… there is blood…so much blood…so much terror…so much pain…so much suffering…so much sadness…so much senseless death… but they continue to flicker unbidden on the dark screen of my eyelids, unspooling, unfolding, the scenes playing out like a vivid tapestry of death and horror and Hell…

CLICK

…John Gage at the long metal slide that is in the park, a happy piece of playground equipment that should always be used joyfully by innocent children, but it's not joyful or happy or innocent now as he tries frantically to save a little girl that is so obviously dead, her blood foaming up through the gut wound as Gage does gentle chest compressions on her, swearing that he's seen her take a breath, when we both know that it is utterly impossible for a child so small to survive such a gruesome injury; when I pull him away from her, he lashes out at me, swinging in fury, clipping me on the side of the face with his bloody fist, his rage and his horror at what he's seeing out here today needing someone to hurt and that is me…

CLICK

… …the tiny infant girl lying brutally murdered upon the blanket, her wee little hand severed grotesquely from her body, her fingers still tightly clutching her small rattle; while next to her, her toddler brother lies face down, and when I turn him back over, his face is nothing more than a gory mass of splintered bone, stringy tissue, and shattered grey brain matter, and I know…I know that there is no hope for those poor kids, and I'm beginning to wonder if there's actually any hope for any of us, for the bodies seem to just keep appearing as if in some sort of gruesome assembly line...pick one up from one place, there's another one lying elsewhere to take its place…on and on and on and on...

CLICK

…the angry shrieking woman in the back end of the Armadillo, screaming madly because I left her dead son and daughter on the blankets where they died; the woman leaping wildly from the back of the rig in order to return to her precious children, her only thought not that we were rescuing her, but leaving her kids behind; she spits and claws at me like a wildcat when I go after her and try to drag her back aboard the rig and safety, then there's the crack of Burnside's rifle and she's no longer fighting me as her body slams back hard into mine, and I drop her limp to the emerald green grass and fall on my knees next to her, puking my fucking guts out, blood blossoming viciously over her heart from the bullet that Burnside drove into her, the same bullet that slammed through her striking me in my Kevlar vest, stopping mere millimeters from my own heart… 

CLICK

…the frantic woman that stops me in the triage area once we've brought an end to Burnside's bloody rampage, begging me to tell her that her daughter and two small grandchildren are still going to be coming out of that park alive, even though we all know that all that is left in the battlefield now are the broken bodies of the deceased; she implores me to give her that one tiny thread of hope to still cling to, and I cannot, for as she thrusts a picture of the daughter and grandkids under my nose, I know instantly that it was her daughter that leapt from the back of the Armadillo and tried to return to her kids, the same woman that took a bullet for me; when I can give no other answer to her than a token "I'm sorry", her thread of hope breaks and she realizes then that there will be no more survivors coming out of the park alive, and she strikes out at me, her horror and her sorrow and her deep black anger making her lash out with a fist, hitting me in the exact same spot where the bullet that killed her daughter struck me, in a strange twist of irony… 

CLICK

…my partner, Jim Reed, on the rooftop of the Granite Court building, down on his knees in front of mass murderer Charlie Burnside; Burnside grinning maniaclly as he holds a gun to Jim's head with one hand, and a detonator for the bomb Burnside wears around his chest in the other; while Jim looks resigned and stoic, as if he's accepted the fate that we are about to die at the hands of a madman, because after finding out that Jean wants a divorce, what does Jim have to live for now anyway?; and I can dredge up only a weariness and an innate sadness that my life finally going to end this way, because all of the shock and the anger and the terror of earlier was driven out of me the moment I came onto this roof and found my partner on his knees at gunpoint; then Air Ten flies by the three of us in order to distract Burnside's attention for a second, and Jim uses that opportunity to rear back and hit Burnside in the torso while grabbing the detonator out of his hand…Burnside's body toppling over the side of the building before Air Ten has even completed its manuever…and then what is left of that miserable little fuck, Charlie Burnside, is lying crumpled and broken on the street below, his madness and his terror and his power reduced to nothing more than a shattered bag of blood, bones, and tissue…

CLICK

…Jim Reed drawing his foot back to stomp on Burnside's already-crushed skull after we've done the walk-through with Val and Sergeant Friday and Bill Gannon, his hatred and his rage nearly making him no better than Burnside, until I pull him back from the brink, and then Jim spits on Burnside's body to show him what he thinks of the man, in one last effort of defiance and hatred; and in Jim's eyes I see the same things reflecting back to me that I know are in mine…bitter despair,vile loathing, black anger, heartfelt sorrow, goddamned gritty pride, and the absolute relief that the whole horrific situation is finally over with, thank God and Amen; yet there is no hope in Jim's eyes, only a jaded bitterness that is much too old for a kid of 28, and it's the bitterness and the anger that makes him order me to stop the car so that he can walk the rest of the way home, his back bowed, his head bent, his spirit broken, as he strides down the street, trying so hard to fight the goddamned demons on his own…

And it is that image than finally drives me to my knees on the floor, whimpering softly as I try to forget all the gruesome horror and the awful tragedy and the goddamned fucking Hell that was today. The dam breaks inside of me then as I kneel there, all of the pent-up emotions of black rage, icy sickness, vile loathing, acid hatred, and dark sorrow whirling together inside of me like a violent rushing wave of water, and I huddle into a tight little ball on the floor, crying and sniveling and bawling my fucking eyes out like a goddamned little baby, my voice hoarse with choking sobs that rasp in my throat, tearing themselves ragged from my body like ghosts souls of pain and anguish and suffering. I lay there, weeping harshly…for all the innocent lives lost out there today, brutally gunned down because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time; for all that survived the attack and will carry the scars of Burnside's actions forever in on their bodies and in their minds and within their souls; for the men of Station 51 that were forced to rescue their own injured Captain from the crushed hulk of their engine after Burnside brought the parking ramp crashing down atop it; for Johnny Gage riding into battle with us, each and every time, without hesitation or complaint, proving that he is just as goddamned gutsy and brave in facing down a sniper's bullet as he is fighting flames; for myself, because what has happened today has shocked and shattered even my jaded and cynical heart, the sheer brutal violence of today's attack shaking my faith to the very core and foundation, and as it is, I have allowed my emotions to sweep over me and get the best of me, culminating in the screaming match with Mac and throwing my badge on his desk and walking out on the only job I've ever really known and truly loved doing…

But most of all, it is my partner, Jim Reed, that I lay there and weep so hard for; the young man that has grown under my careful tutelage from a gawky and awkward probationer that was worried over putting a minor ding in the squad car, into a fine and highly competent police officer, well-skilled and trained and fully capable of handling anything thrown at him…except this Hell. How Jim is going to deal with all that he's seen today, all that he's experienced today, I don't really know, because I'm not sure how I'm going to deal with it all myself, to be honest. Time was, a horrifc scene such as this would have sent us to Leroy's for a few beers, talking it over and venting to one another with the freeing help of booze, but now…I don't know. And it makes me afraid, very afraid, for Jim's heart and soul and sanity, because the guideposts and touchstones he used to fall back on to support him when it got bad are no longer there, now that Jean has summarily decided to end their marriage. I will be there for him as best I can, but I know that even I cannot work miracles and pull rabbits out of hats, making all the pain and the suffering and the sorrow go away, disappearing them into thin air with a wave of my magic wand, even though I wish to God I could, for ALL of us. I wish that the searing hot tears that are spilling from my eyes and flowing down my face would cleanse my own heart, my own soul, my own mind, washing the day's horror off of my spirit like the shower washed away the dust and grime and blood, restoring my innocence and my hope to me… hope...the only thing that was left in Pandora's box after she foolishly opened it. But I fear now there is not even hope left to me, for how can such a fragile emotion exist in a world like this, one that has other malicious and evil Charlie Burnsides out there planning god-knows-what, one that has such misery and suffering and death, one that has such godawful fucking HELL like today was…how can hope even SURVIVE in a world such as this?

And it's an answer that refuses to come to me.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song "Hush Little Baby" is a traditional lullaby and is in the public domain. **ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION.** In order to enhance the overall plot experience, creative liberties may have been intentionally taken with the real-life protocols depicted herein.

_There is blood…so much blood…I can smell it in my nose, a thick cloying sweetness with a sharp coppery edge…I close my eyes…_

_"Hush little baby, don't say a word," I hear someone singing, and I open my eyes to see Johnny Gage approaching me, a black bulletproof vest over his blue paramedic shirt, the shirt stained with sweat and dust and grime. He cradles a little girl in a flowered sundress in his arms, looking down at her with a wide toothy smile on his face. "Hey, Pete," he says jovially. "I saved this little girl, whaddaya think of that?"_

_I look down at the child in his arms, horrified by what I see, for she's clearly dead, a huge hole blown in her gut, blood seeping out and trickling down Johnny's arms as the slimy grey-white worms of her intestines peek through the gaping wound. Her head lolls limply and her clouded green eyes stare sightlessly up at the blue sky overhead. "You didn't save her, Johnny," I tell him thickly, swallowing back bile as I stare at the bloody little rag doll that used to be a human being. "She's dead."_

_"No she's not!" he says angrily, his face settling into a stony glare, his dark eyes flashing fire at me. "She's still alive, damn it!" He looks back down at her tenderly. "Don't worry, sweetie," he soothes gently, clearly unaware of the horrific damage that has been done to the child, robbing her of her life. "We'll get you out of here and everything will be all right, you wait and see." He sways from side to side, rocking her in his arms as he begins to sing again. "Hush little baby, don't say a word, Johnny's gonna buy you a mockingbird…" he croons as her blood oozes down his arms, dripping onto the grass beneath his feet._

_There is blood…so much blood…I close my eyes…_

_"Pete!" someone exclaims, suddenly clutching at my legs, and I open my eyes, looking down to see Judy at my feet, crimson and grey blotches dotting her pink checkered shirt and pink slacks. She smiles and gestures to her young son who is lying a-ways away from us on the Irish green grass, motionless. "David wants you to play catch with him," she says. "Remember you promised to do that the other day and you didn't get a chance because it was raining out?"_

_I look across the grass to where he lies, his body still and unmoving, his face blown away and replaced by a ghastly dark crater of shattered skull and brain matter and blood. I stare at him for a moment, my brain trying to comprehend what I'm seeing, then I turn sickened eyes to Judy. "He's dead, Judy," I tell her as gently as I can. "He's been shot."_

_"He's not dead, he's only sleeping, Pete!" she snaps at me, releasing her hold on me to crawl over to him, glaring at me as she picks him up, cradling him in her arms. "Shh, sweetie, go back to sleep," she murmurs, smoothing a lock of bloodstained hair away from what's left of his forehead. "Hush little David, don't say a word, Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird," she sings to him, a smile on her face as she gazes lovingly down at his shattered head, unaware that his face is completely gone._

_There is blood…so much blood…I close my eyes…_

_"Pete, we gotta get outta here, somebody's shooting at people!" a voice at my side urges, and I open my eyes to see my partner, Jim Reed, standing there with a child cradled in his arms, this one alive and wailing loudly, clutching at Jim's bulletproof vest with frightened fingers, his blue eyes wide with fear as he cries and cowers in his father's arms, for it is Jim's own son that he holds tightly to him. "We gotta get Jimmy outta here before we all get killed!" Jim says in a panic, just as a shot rings out and little Jimmy's head explodes against his father's chest, a fine mist of blood, bone and grey brain matter spraying out across Jim's vest and black coveralls, dotting them like gory confetti. Jim's eyes meet mine in shocked horror. "Oh my God," he moans. "Jean's gonna be pissed at me. I got little Jimmy killed." Still cradling the limp body of his son, he turns away from me. "Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, what did I do?" he whimpers. He sways from side to side, rocking the dead body of his son in his arms as he begins to sing to soothe himself rather than his deceased son. "Hush little Jimmy, don't say a word, Daddy's gonna buy you a mockingbird…"_

_"This cannot be happening," I mutter to myself, staring at the figures of my three friends in abject shock. The voices of Johnny Gage, Jim Reed, and Judy Smith converge in eerie harmony, singing the familiar sweet lullaby like a beautiful funeral dirge, the notes of their voices echoing out across the still, silent park. "This cannot be happening," I murmur again in disbelief._

_"Oh, but it is, Malloy!" booms a jolly voice from behind me, and I whip around to see Charlie Burnside standing there, dressed in camouflage fatigues, holding a rifle in his hands. His teeth flash whitely in his suntanned face as he grins at me. "How'd you like my little show out here today?"_

_Hatred rages boiling hot in my blood as I stare at him, realizing that he's the cause behind all of this evil done here today. "Burnside," I spit out venomously, his name a bad taste in my mouth. "You evil fucking sonofabitch, I hope you rot in the deepest bowels of Hell for what you've done out here."_

_"Tsk tsk," he clucks in a scold, shaking his head. "I knew you and Reed hated me, Malloy, but there's no reason to get nasty."_

_"That's because you made it easy for us TO hate you, Burnside," I growl, my eyes narrowed to slits as I glare at him, my hands clenched into fists so tightly, my nails are digging into my palms. "No one likes a dirty cop, and you were as dirty as they came, you asshole."_

_"Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me," he singsongs in an eerily child-like tone as he approaches me, swinging the rifle by its strap so that it's around at his back. Reaching out and grabbing me by the collar of my coveralls, he yanks me close to me, his breath sour and rancid in my face, the odor of sweat and cordite and evil rolling off of him like a visible miasma. "Do you know what you and that goody-goody partner of yours did to me? DO YOU?" he asks in a harsh rasp, his eyes boring into mine with angry intensity as he shakes me by the collar a bit. I bring my hands up to try and break free from his grasp, but I'm powerless in his grip. "You two, along with that sniveling wimp, Al Porter, got me fired from the force for police brutality, plus I had assault charges filed against me and I was forced to plead guilty, spending sixty days in jail as my sentence. I couldn't get a decent job after that, and my wife left me, divorcing me for some jerk that had more money than I did. Do you know what I wound up doing? I wound up doing LABOR, that's what I wound up doing…shit jobs that no one else wanted to do, like working construction and hauling trash and landscaping."_

_"You got what you had coming to you, Burnside," I snarl at him, finally breaking myself free from his grip. "You were badge heavy and you threw your weight around when you roughed suspects up just to intimidate them. Jim Reed and Al Porter were right in taking up what they'd seen you do while on duty to the higher ups. Any cop with a conscience woulda done the same damned thing."_

_"Yes," he says, nodding thoughtfully. "And it's too bad that I had to find out after transferring into Central Division just how conscientious my fellow officers were, too. In my old division, they woulda looked the other way and never said a word, maybe even got in on the action themselves." He smiles again, teeth flashing once more like a friendly piranha, just before it eats you. "After all, the criminals that we chased on a daily basis were nothing more than pond scum, and if they got a little banged up before they were brought into the jail, who cared? They got what they deserved."_

_"And so did you, you motherfucker," I growl angrily._

_"Now so will you, Malloy, for what you and your partner have done to me," he retorts, his smile turning cold, his eyes like chips of granite as he pulls a revolver from the holster on his belt, cocking the hammer. He begins to sing softly as he aims the gun at John Gage standing across the way from us, still cradling the dead girl in his arms, blissfully unaware of what's going on around him. "Hush little baby, don't say a word, Charlie's gonna buy you a mockingbird…" With a strangled cry as I realize what he's about to do, I leap towards Burnside to knock his hand away but I'm too late, for Burnside pulls the trigger and John Gage is no more, Burnside's bullet catching Johnny right in the head, taking the top of his skull clean off with the precision of a surgeon. Johnny topples to the grass, now nothing more than a heap of bloody skin and bones dressed in a paramedic's uniform, the dead child rolling away from his slackened arms. "And if that mockingbird don't sing, Daddy's gonna buy you a diamond ring…" Burnside continues to sing as he swings the gun around to aim at Judy, who is still seated on the grass, stroking David's bloodsoaked hair away from his shattered head. Screaming, I lunge at him once more, but he swats me away like I'm nothing more than an annoying gnat as he pulls the trigger, catching Judy square in the heart and crumpling her over the body of her dead son. "Isn't this fun, Malloy?" Burnside chortles gleefully, a maniacal kid opening presents of death and destruction on Christmas Eve. "And look, I've saved the best for last!" He gestures to Jim._

_"Don't," I hoarse out, fear shooting cold through my veins. "Don't kill him. You've already murdered his son, don't murder him, too." I gesture with a shaking hand to the dead bodies of Judy and David, Johnny and the little girl. "Isn't what hell you've committed out here enough?"_

_Burnside cocks his head at me, a queer little expression of malicious amusement on his face. "Oh, I'm not going to be the one to pull the trigger on your best friend," he sneers delightedly. "YOU are, Pete." He holds the revolver out to me._

_I shake my head vehemently. "Nuh-uh," I say, backing away from him. "There's no fucking way in HELL I'm killing my best friend. I don't want the blood of innocents on my hands."_

_"It's a little late for that, don'tcha think, Malloy?" he asks. "After all, it's because of you that I began this shooting rampage."_

_"You can't blame me for what you've done out here, Burnside," I growl out. "You're the sick fuck who couldn't handle what life threw at him and decided to take it out on innocent society." I gesture to Jim. "And there's no way that I'm pulling the trigger on Jim. You can't make me do it, either."_

_Burnside laughs as he reaches out, grabbing my right hand in a cast-iron grip I can't shake free of. "Oh, I can't, can I?" he asks with a giggle, pressing down on my hand with inhuman strenght…suddenly there is the sound of cracking bone and an explosion of white-hot pain sears across me, blinding me, and I suck my breath in with a sharp gasp, letting it out in a whimper of pain, groaning and sagging to my knees in the grass, Burnside still holding my hand like an illicit lover. "Hurts, doesn't it?" he gloats._

_"You evil motherfucker," I gasp, gritting my teeth against the pain and trying hard to hide from him, knowing that he's feeding off of it like a succubus._

_"Get up!" he orders me, shaking me by the hand he still clasps. "I said, GET UP!" He twists my hand, sending bright glints of agony across me, and I slowly haul myself to my feet with a sharp rasp of breath, sweat breaking out upon my forehead. Still gripping my hand, Burnside pries my crushed fingers open, slapping the revolver into my palm, forcing my index finger over the trigger with his own, raising the gun towards Jim. "And if that diamond ring turns brass, Daddy's gonna buy you a looking glass," he begins to sing once more, picking up the nursery song as if he never left it._

_"Run!" I yell at Jim, who stares back at me with a mournful gaze, his face tracked with tears, his dead son Jimmy still cradled in his arms. "He's gonna make me kill you!"_

_Jim shrugs complacently. "Que sera sera, isn't that what you always say?" he asks sorrowfully. He looks down at the headless body of Jimmy. "And what do I have to live for now, anyway?" he asks softly. "Jean's leaving me and now my son is dead. I have nothing more to keep me here, Pete. Killing me would be a mercy, really."_

_"See?" Burnside chuckles maniacally. "Reed's got the right idea, for once." He begins to sing once more as he forces me to raise the gun towards Jim's head. "Que sera sera, whatever will be, will be," he croons, switching to the Doris Day tune instead of the nursery song, his finger tightening over mine…"The future's not ours to see"…and then he makes me pull the trigger on my best friend. With a soundless scream, I watch in horror as Jim's head shatters before my eyes, dropping him and his son to the ground, where their crimson lifeblood stains the emerald green lifeblood of the grass._

_There is blood…so much blood…innocent blood…_

_"Oh my god," I moan as Burnside releases me from his unearthly grip then, allowing me to drop to my knees on the ground, the smell of cordite pepper-sharp in my nose as I wrap my arms around my midsection, rocking back and forth, trying to soothe myself as if I were a child. "Oh my god," I whimper again, sickened by what has happened in front of me._

_"Don't you know, Peter J.?" Burnside asks, towering over me, looking down at me with those cold, lifeless eyes. "There is no God. Not here, not there, not anywhere," he says in a spooky Dr. Seuss chant. "There is no God…just me." He throws his head back, laughing. "And now I'm sure you'd like to exact a little revenge of your own upon me, wouldn't you, Malloy?" he asks. He kneels down next to me, slinging a comradely arm across my back as he holds the revolver out to me, butt first. "Here," he offers. "Take it. Shoot me with it." He grins whitely at me in a teeth-gleaming taunt as he spins the cylinder on the gun, the chambers clicking crisply. "You know you want to, Malloy. Que sera sera."_

_I stare at the proffered gun for a moment…I've never shot someone in revenge, but the hatred and bloodlust rises in my veins, and I snatch it from him with a shaking left hand, pointing it right between his eyes as I grin back at him, my lips curled back in a sneer of distate, my index finger caressing the trigger lovingly, my thumb cocking the hammer. "I can't wait to see you die, you sonofabitch," I gloat as I pull the trigger and…_

_Nothing happens._

_"What the hell?" I growl angrily, glaring at the weapon clutched in my fingers as Burnside laughs uproariously at my predicament._

_"Looks like you lost, Malloy," he giggles, taking the weapon from my trembling hand. "Can't you count? It's a six-shot revolver, and we've already used up three shots on your friends over there." He cocks his head at me, looking at me with curiosity. "Ever play Russian Roulette, Malloy?" he asks casually._

_Fear curdles cold in my chest as I realize what he's suggesting. "No. And I'm not about to start now, either. I'm not the type to think of suicide as a way out of my problems, no matter how bad they may be."_

_He shakes his head mournfully. "Oh, but you lie, you lie, you lie, Malloy," he chides gently, wagging a finger at me. "You thought of it when Steve Baker was murdered, didn't you? And you considered it during the Walters investigation, even putting the gun under your chin on the night of your own Gethsamane, but you couldn't bring yourself to pull the trigger. You were too fucking chicken." He spins the cylinder again. "But I'm not," he says, smiling as he points the gun right between my eyes, the muzzle of the gun warm against my skin. "Any famous last words ya wanna say, Malloy?" he asks with malicious glee. "Feel like begging a bit for your own life?"_

_I stare back at him, my heart pounding wildly, hatred flaming out of my eyes. "I'll be damned if I'm gonna beg, Burnside," I spit out harshly. "I didn't beg for it in front of Steve Deal and I sure as hell ain't gonna beg for my life in front of you, you fucking asshole."_

_"Pride goeth before a fall," he murmurs, his finger caressing the trigger of the revolver. "Hush little baby, don't say a sound…" he sings softly, putting a finger to his lips in a shushing motion. Closing my eyes, I draw my breath in in a sharp gasp, waiting for the explosion of the bullet blasting through my brain. I hear the snap of the trigger and it doesn't come, and I let the breath out in a shaky sigh, opening my eyes. He spins the cylinder again, sending the chambers clicking wildly once more like bone dice dancing on a craps table. "Daddy's gonna kill you with this round…" he whispers, his finger tightening on the trigger. He gives me a salute, raising two fingers to his forehead. "Que sera sera, Malloy."_

_And the gun goes off then, exploding once…exploding twice…exploding three times in my skull, but I don't feel it as it keeps ringing and ringing and ringing…_

And ringing…my eyes fly open in a sudden flash and I gasp, wrenched out of the nightmare by the jarringly insistent ringing of the phone on my nightstand. I roll over to answer it and promptly fall off the bed, meeting the floor with my face instead, getting a mouthful of brown shag carpeting as something slides off of the bed and lands next to me with a thunk. What the hell? my fuzzy mind asks as I lie there for a moment, face mushed against the carpeting, momentarily stunned by this rather startling turn of events, for I haven't fallen out of bed since I was three. As the phone keeps ringing, I gather my addled wits about me, getting sweaty palms beneath myself, flipping myself over onto my back with a grunt, just as the phone mercifully stops ringing. I remain there on my back, trying hard to figure out how I went from THERE to HERE, running a sandpaper tongue across desert-dry lips, the taste of what apparently has been a herd of sheep gamboling about in my mouth, staring glassy-eyed up at the liver-shaped water stain on my ceiling…oh god, liver…my stomach gives a queasy roll and saliva quickly fills my mouth with a sour thickness. My heart hammers wildly and I press a hand to keep it from leaping out of my chest, ignoring the pain of the bruise over my heart when I bump it, closing my eyes as I breathe harshly through my nose, willing my stomach to stay where it's at, a chilly sweat breaking out across me. It relents a little, settling somewhere in the vicinity of my lungs, and I flick my eyes open, still breathing through my nose, swiping a shaky palm across my forehead as I blink sleep-grit and sweat out of my eyes. Jungle drums begin to take up a vicious throbbing beat in my head, accompanying the conga-line pounding of my heart.

Carefully avoiding looking at the water stain on my ceiling again, lest it rile my stomach up once more, I stare at the blue-diamond pattern of my bedspread instead, trying to gather the remnants of memory about me, searching hard in my still-fuzzy brain for the clues as to why I wound up on the floor instead of in the bed. Why wasn't I lying in bed like I normally would have been if I'd been asleep? Judging from the angle of my ungraceful fall, I must have been sprawled across the foot of the mattress. I squint in bleary recall, brief snatches of last night coming back to me here and there…watching coverage of the sniper attack on tv, screaming at Judy to get out, throwing the drinking glass at the door and watching it shatter, picking up the pieces and cutting myself on a tiny shard…I remember nothing after that. I hold my palm out in front of me, eyes searching for the injury, seeing the scabbed and dried blood where the little cut is, reassuring myself that I did indeed cut myself last night. I frown, furrowing my brow as my tongue scrapes thickly across the roof of my mouth, sliding against the sour film on my teeth. What in the hell happened to me last night? Why can't I remember anything after I got cut? Was I somehow injured yesterday during the sniper attack and now I'm suffering from amnesia?

Remembering that something fell from the bed at the same time I did, I turn my head, spotting an empty bottle of Jack Daniels lying inches away from me, a few amber drops of whiskey still clinging stubbornly to the sides. I close my eyes in sickened realization…oh fuck, I musta got totally wasted last night, and wandered back here and passed out on the bed. I try to recall how much whiskey was left in the bottle before I got into it…half a bottle? three-fourths of a bottle? Surely I couldn't have drunk THAT much, could I have?...and I realize that I cannot remember. Hot shame at what I've done sweeps through me, for it's been a long, LONG time since I've gotten that goddamned drunk. I take in a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh at my stupidity, because getting that drunk is something my dad would do, not me, and I've always prided myself that despite what I often witness in the job as a cop, I don't let it turn me into a raging alcoholic like my dad's life experiences have done to him. I dislike the idea of losing control, of allowing booze to do my thinking and acting for me, and it's not too often that I let myself get totally blitzed like I apparently did last night.

But I just wanted to forget the horror and the hell of yesterday, that's all, a little voice whispers in my head.

"Still, that's no goddamned excuse for getting that drunk," I mutter in thick-tongued response.

It can be forgiven, though, the little voice whispers. What you experienced, what you witnessed yesterday…you needed the whiskey to ease the pain of what you went through. Any sane man would have done the same damned thing. So quit beating yourself up over it. What's done is done.

"Why am I arguing with the voice in my head anyway?" I mumble. "Is it a sign I'm going crazy?"

No, it's a sign you're human, Pete, that's all, the voice answers back.

"Right now, that's debatable," I reply.

The floor begins to feel uncomfortable against my back, so with a heavy groan, I slowly heave myself into a sitting position, my stomach complaining sourly, the jungle drums beating violently in my head as I sit propped against one palm flat on the carpet, scrubbing at the sweat on my face with the other palm, the room spinning sickeningly for a second before it settles back into place around me. I rest like that for a moment, then carefully, oh so carefully so that my aching head doesn't explode all over the room and my stomach doesn't revolt, I begin to ease myself back onto the bed, gripping the mattress and bedspread for dear life as I climb gingerly aboard, the mattress a life raft in a storm-tossed sea. I crawl up to the headboard, gently lowering my head onto one of my pillows, resting a fevered cheek against the cool cotton pillowcase as I curl myself up into a fetal ball and wish like hell I were dead right now. I know I need aspirin and something in my stomach to soak up the poison of the alcohol, but all I can do is press sweating palms against sweating temples, trying to keep my skull from shattering into a million little pieces. I can smell fresh-brewed coffee coming from the kitchen, Judy apparently having put it on last night to brew this morning, but it sounds about appealing as beating my head against the wall right now. I whimper pitifully at my deeply hungover state…for what good's getting drunk if you can't regret it in the morning?...grinding my cheek into the pillow as I flail an arm about, fingers searching for the other pillow on my bed. Finding it, I grab it and jam it tightly over my head, closing out the world. Maybe if I can get back to some semblance of sleep, I'll feel better when I wake up…

And, as if on cue, the damned phone starts ringing once more, and I wish I'd remembered to shut the fucker off before I wandered back here and passed out with the whiskey bottle in my hand last night. "Shut up," I rasp at it hoarsely, my words muffled by the weight of the pillow atop me. "Go 'way. Don' bother me." I squinch my eyes shut even tighter than they already are, willing the phone to stop ringing. But it continues to shrill, so with a groan, I flail my arm out once more, fumbling thick fingers for the receiver, grabbing it and shoving it to my ear without even knocking the pillow away from my head. "Speak, damn it!" I growl into it, wincing at the sharp sound of my own voice echoing in my skull.

There's a gasp of horror from the other end of the line. "Peter Joseph Malloy, is that any way to answer a phone?" squawks my mother's shocked voice, all the way from Seattle. "How RUDE!"

Oh fuck, my mother…I shoulda known she was going to be calling bright and early to check on me, since I didn't call her back last night when I got in. Shoving the pillow from my head, I pinch the bridge of my nose as I sigh, for my mother is the LAST person I want to deal with right now. "Sorry, Mom," I mumble in apology, hoping that she won't hear the insincerity in my tone.

"Peter, why didn't you call me back last night?" she asks, managing to sound bewildered and pissed at the same time. "I left several messages with Judy for you to call me when you got in, no matter what the time was. Didn't she give them to you?"

Now I know I could be a complete ass and toss Judy to the wolves, using the excuse that no, she didn't give me the messages to call Mom last night, but I honestly can't throw her under the bus like that and expect her to take the blame for my own failure. I'm not that kind of guy, and besides, as mindnumbingly dull as it truly is at times, I would definitely miss the nookie I get on a semi-regular basis from Judy, who doles it out to me like she's doling out gold stars for great achievements to her second graders, except I'm not apt to wet my pants if called to the chalkboard, nor do I have any desire to fashion pictures of puppies out of macaroni and glitter, nor do I want to eat paste or cram crayons up my nose…ever. "No, Mom," I sigh. "Judy gave me the messages. It was just too late for me to call you when I got in, and plus, all I really wanted to do was get a shower and hit the sack for the next decade or so."

"Oh…" my mom's voice hesitates. "I'm sorry, did I wake you, sweetie?"

"Isn't that what most people are still doing at…" I pause, opening an eye and glancing at the alarm clock on my nightstand, "Six-thirty in the morning?" I can't help the somewhat snide tone to my voice, for my mother KNOWS not to call me before ten a.m. EVER. Unless someone is dead, of course, and even then, it had damned well better be someone close to me, like ME for instance. I refrain from telling her that I wasn't as much sleeping as I was passed out from being drunk, for that's not something one really wants one's mother to know.

"Oh, honey, I'm sorry, I just wanted to call and see if you were okay," she apologizes. "Your father and I were worried about you after we heard about the sniper killings on tv last night."

"Dad was worried about me?" I snort derisively at the mention of my father. "That's a good one, Mom. Tell me another. I need a good laugh this morning." Bitterness edges my voice.

"Now honey, you know he loves you in his own way," she chides gently, skirting the issue of my father and I like a seasoned square dancer, do-si-do-ing away from it with practiced ease. Hell, she should…she's had thirty odd years of experience in doing it. "Anyway, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Mom," I mumble. "Just peachy."

She falls silent for a moment, and I can almost see her picking at the wool of her old grey sweater, worrying the soft little nubs of fabric between her fingers like rosary beads. "Were you involved in that sniper situation yesterday, Peter?" she asks softly, fearfully, for while my mother realizes on some level that I'm a cop, and as such, I face danger and death every time I put on the shiny metal shield and blue dacron uniform, but she'd rather not think of that. No, she'd prefer to think of me as a meter maid that packs heat, for what's the worst a meter maid faces? Bunions, sore feet, paper cuts, and the occasional tongue-lashing from an irate parking violator. "From what we saw on tv, it looked very bad, with a lot of people killed," she says quietly. "Were you involved in it, honey?"

Now it's my turn to fall silent, static hissing over the long distance line as my fingers play with the pigtail of the phone cord, twisting it as I debate whether or not to tell her the truth, staring at the dust motes that drift lazily before me on the little shafts of early-morning sun that peep in through the closed curtains at my window. I know she wants to hear that I was only a bit actor on the sidelines of the incident, involved only with the roadblocks or traffic control, rather than the actual killing ground itself. Finally I speak. "Yeah, I was, Mom," I tell her evasively, because yea verily, the truth shall set me free, and besides, mothers ALWAYS know when their kid is lying, it's an unerring instinct. "I was involved in it and let's just leave it at that, okay?"

"How bad was it, Peter?" she asks gingerly, not wanting to know but needing to ask anyway.

"It was…" my voice trails off into misery as her motherly concern rings poignant in my soul, wrapping tight arms around me in a long-distance embrace, making me feel like I'm five years old again and need to tell my mommy about the monsters that reside under my bed, especially the scary ones that go up on the roofs of buildings with guns and kill people. I scrub at gritty eyes that have suddenly become damp, a lump riding up in my throat as I long to spill yesterday's horror to her, but I fight it, for how do I tell her that I watched a woman take a bullet meant for me, simply because she refused to leave her dead children behind? How do I tell her that I saw a little girl's head explode in my partner's arms as she was seconds away from safety and survival, just because she happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time with her preschool group? How do I tell her that I spent an eternity in that stinking, wallowing Armadillo, witnessing so much damage and fear and death and blood that I can still see it when I close my eyes, still taste it on my tongue, still hear it ringing in my ears, still smell it in burning in my nose, the whole horrific experience seared into my heart, my mind, my soul like a cattlebrand…how in the fuck do I tell my mom that? I can't, I just can't. I cannot explain to her something I cannot understand myself, why some madman would go up on top of a building and start gunning people down in the park below, just because he hated the world that created him. I cough, clearing my throat before I speak. "It was bad, Mom, real bad," I manage to rasp out, trying hard to keep the emotion from my voice and failing miserably at it. "That's all I'm gonna tell you, too, so please don't ask me anymore about it."

She clearly hears the anguish in my words. "Oh, honey," she says gently, soothingly. "This is why I wish you'd quit your job and take something else, something safer and less depressing."

"Mom, please," I complain wearily. "We've been over this before. I'm not quitting my job over something like this." Even though you already did, my fuzzy brain reminds me, blearily remembering the scene in Mac's office last night when I tossed my badge onto his desk and told him to shove it up his ass, then stormed out with Jim Reed right behind me, having done the same. I smirk sourly at the recall…what I would do, Reed surely would follow, the two of us blood brothers to the goddamned bitter end.

"Peter, just hear me out," she pleads. "Why not leave L.A. and come back home to work here at the Seattle police department? Surely it wouldn't be as dangerous as it is there in Los Angeles."

"A cop is a cop is a cop, Mom," I tell her with a tired sigh. "No matter WHAT city they work for. It's just as dangerous a job in Corncob City, Iowa as it is in L.A. or Seattle."

"Yes, but…" she quails.

"Mom, I'm not discussing this with you any further," I interrupt a bit sharply. I glance at the clock. "Look, Mom, I've gotta go," I say, deciding to feign being busy. "I've got some things I gotta get done before I go to work."

"But, Peter…" she begins.

"Bye, Mom, I love you," I say quickly, cutting her off as I gently replace the phone in the cradle. I wait a moment to see if she calls me back, but she doesn't, so I flop over onto my other side with a groan, burrowing my head back into the pillow beneath my cheek, reaching for the other pillow to cram over my head. My fingers land on a wad of paper and I roll it around between thumb and forefinger, then I open my eyes, bringing the crumpled ball up to investigate it further. I pluck carefully at it, opening the edges, trying hard to focus bleary eyes on what's written on it…a phone number printed out in Judy's neat penmanship…I squint at the name she wrote down, then my eyes widen…Oh fuck, Evie's number! my fried brain blurts at me. I stare at the number for a moment, then on impulse, I flip back over to the phone, picking the receiver up as I prop myself up, dialing the numbers in, then I realize with horror what I'm about to do, and I slam the phone back down before I can complete the call, my fingers shaking as I stare at the slip of paper in front of me. "What in the fuck are you THINKING, Malloy?" I whisper in shock to myself.

Then another realization hits me…if I was willing to call Evie when I'm halfway sober, what was I willing to do while I was drunk off my ass? Fear races through me, panicking me as my brain scrambles hard to remember if I DID call Evie last night. "Oh shit, what did I DO?" I moan, my eyes darting back and forth between the number on the paper and the phone on my nightstand. I don't dare call Evie and ask her if I contacted her last night, because if I DIDN'T, then that is a stone better left unturned on a rocky path that ended on a sharp cliff overlooking the ocean oh so long ago, to mix many metaphors to describe my relationship with the woman who is…WAS…my ex-wife. But if I did call her…if I did…oh dear God…I close my eyes, surmising that the only way I'll find out is when I get my phone bill, unless Evie contacts me again. Opening my eyes with a sigh, I crumple the paper back into a little ball and toss it into the trashbasket next to the nightstand. Then, on second thought, I reach down and pick up the trashbasket, plucking the little shred of paper back out, putting it next to the alarm clock. I'm not sure WHY I don't want to throw it away just yet, other than it is a lifeline of sorts for me, a lifeline that I'll likely never use.

With a weary groan, I ease myself out of bed, swinging my legs around and setting my feet gently on the floor, testing my sea legs as I slowly stand up. The room maintains its equilibrium and so do I, the jungle drums still beating a vicious tattoo in my skull as I gingerly cross the carpeting to my bathroom in search of a couple of aspirin, the brown shag rug rough beneath my bare feet. Without even turning on the bathroom light, I find the bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet and open it, shaking two tablets out, running water in the sink to take them, but then I decide it might be best if I take them with a cup of coffee, the combination of the analgesic and caffeine working together to break the hangover headache. Tablets in hand, I leave the bathroom and retrace my steps in the bedroom as I head to the kitchen. The empty bottle of whiskey still lying on my floor catches my eye and I stop for a moment to pick it up, instantly regretting it when the jungle drums increase to a mambo inside my skull when I lean over. I straighten back up with a small whimper of misery...god, I am never getting drunk like that again, at least not for another few years or so.

Just as I enter the living room, empty whiskey bottle in one hand, savior aspirin in the other, there is a sharp knock at my door and I freeze, startled by the sudden intrusion of sound into the otherwise quiet atmosphere. Telepathically I command whoever is on the other side of the door to go away and leave me the hell alone, for I'm not in the mood for company right now. I do not wish to be proselytized to by fast-talking, fake-smiling idiots selling vaccums, encyclopedias, glossy magazines full of ads, nor do I wish to be preached at by folks about the hallowed word of God which is also full of ads. The foul mood I'm in right now, I'm liable to grab the literature out of their hands and start whacking them over the heads with it, thusly causing myself some embarrassment when the headline in tomorrow's paper reads "LAPD OFFICER ASSAULTS INNOCENT JEHOVAH'S WITNESSES WITH WATCHTOWER MAGAZINES". The knocking starts up again, this time sharper, more insistently, and with a dismayed shake of my head, I set the empty bottle of whiskey down on the coffee table. "Go away!" I yell, wincing at the loudness of my own voice. "I don't wanna be bothered!"

"Pete, open the door!" comes the voice of Captain Val Moore. "We need to talk!"

"No, we don't!" I holler back.

The doorknob rattles as he shakes it vigorously, pounding on the door again. "Damn it, Pete, open this door! You don't want to wake your neighbors up, do you?"

Realizing he has a point, since I already probably disturbed the neighbors when I had the spat with Judy earlier and to bother them again would be a further injustice, so with a heavy sigh, I cross the room to answer the door, careful to avoid stepping where there might be shards of glass left from the drinking glass I shattered against the door last night. I undo the deadbolt and the knob lock, but leave the chain lock on as I open the door. "Look, whatever the hell you're sellin', I ain't buyin'," I tell Val sharply, peeping out at him through the crack allowed by the chain, scowling at him and giving him the most vicious hairy eyeball I can manage with a thudding hangover. It is a look designed to scare off even the hardiest of salesmen and religious blatherers, and unfortunately for me, Val is damnably impervious to it, having been scowled at by me many times in the past, probably more than he can count.

"Here's your paper," he says, holding the morning edition of the LA Times out to me through the crack in the door. He's dressed this morning in his crisp blue uniform instead of his customary suit and tie, his black oxfords and leather holster holding his gun spit shined to perfection, a neat row of his service awards and meritorious ribbons marching across the top of the left breast pocket of his uniform. His gold captain's stars are pinned neatly to his collar tabs, his silver badge glinting bright in the sun, his rectangular nameplate spelling out "Moore" in precise block letters.

"You're pretty old for a paperboy, ain't ya?" I ask dryly, taking the paper from him and tossing it onto the top of the tv set without looking at it, for I know that the headlines will be all about the sniper rampage, which is THE LAST thing I want to read about right now.

"I'm thinking of taking that job up when I retire," he replies magnanimously. "Good exercise and fresh air and all that happy crap, you know."

"Right," I say skeptically, cocking an eyebrow at him. "But you didn't come by this morning to discuss what kind of a job you're going to do after you retire, did you?"

"No, we have some other matters to discuss," he says. "Matters that really are better talked over in the privacy of your own apartment, rather than the balcony."

The sunrays glinting off of Val's brass nearly blinds me. "Christ, you're awfully…eh…shiny to take in by someone who hasn't had his morning cup of coffee yet," I say with a wince, shielding my eyes with a palm. "Too damned chipper and alert, too."

"And you look like hell yourself, Malloy," Val counters softly. "And don't think that I don't know a hangover when I see one, and I'd say you have one hell of a doozy right now, don't you?"

"What, I'm not allowed to self-medicate after yesterday's horrors?" I ask sharply. "Any sane man would have done the same damned thing, Val. And if you've come here to judge me, then you can just go…"

"Fuck myself?" he interrupts, a small smirk playing about his lips. "Like you told Mac to do last night? Yes, I've heard all about THAT little set-to."

"Then you know Reed and I quit the force last night," I tell him flatly. "We're no longer members of the LAPD. So really, you and I have nothing to discuss, do we?"

Val holds a palm up in pleading supplication. "Look, will you please at least hear me out, Pete, and listen to what I have to say? And if you don't like it, I promise you can throw me out on my crisply uniformed ass, okay?" He offers me a half-hearted grin.

"Promise?" I ask, trying to return the grin but failing, my face not feeling like smiling right now. "Oh hell," I sigh wearily, shaking my head as I close the door long enough to undo the chain lock, opening it back up to admit Val. "I know you're gonna stand out here all day if I don't let you in, so I might as well get it over with, I guess." I guesture to the kitchen as Val enters my apartment. "Can I get you a cup of coffee? I'm gonna have one."

"Oh lord no," he says with a grimace and a wave of his hand. "I've had enough coffee in the last 24 hours to power a nuclear energy plant. I think my kidneys would go on strike if I forced more coffee down them." He pauses, his eyes scanning over the kitchen trashcan still sitting in the middle of the living room floor with shards of broken glass inside of it, the empty whiskey bottle sitting on my coffee table, the mark on the door from where I shattered the glass. "What happened here last night, Pete?" he asks softly, his grey eyes going wide with surprise.

"Whaddaya think happened, Val?" I ask snidely as I go into the kitchen and take a ceramic mug from the hook beneath my cabinet, pouring myself a steaming cup of bitter black brew from the nearby coffeepot. "I needed to vent after yesterday's little ordeal." I blow on the coffee to cool it for a moment, then I toss the two aspirin tablets into my mouth, grimacing to myself as I wash them down with a couple of quick burning swallows from the mug. The liquid settles pleasantly in my stomach, calming it down a bit. I carry the mug into the living room, sitting it down atop the coffee table as I have a seat on the couch.

"You call that venting?" Val asks, pointing to the bottle of whiskey as he takes a seat in my recliner.

"Whaddaya want me to do instead?" I ask with a sour smile. "Go up onto the roof of a building and start gunning people down like Burnside did?"

Val winces at my gallows humor. "Pete, please. Don't even joke about that."

"Sorry," I begrudge a bit shamefacedly. "Now no offense, but I'd appreciate it if you'd state your piece and get out, Val. I'm really not up to dealing with life right now."

Wordlessly, he opens the flap of the breast pocket of his uniform, pulling forth my badge and laying it gently down on the table in front of me, the metal shield clinking softly against the dark polished wood of the table. "I think this belongs to you, Pete," he says softly.

I stare at my badge, the one that has graced my uniform for nearly 14 years, the one that I have been so proud to wear on my chest…and the one I turned in without a second thought last night. "Not any more, it doesn't," I say dully, shaking my head.

"Pete, do you honestly think I'm just going to let one of my best officers on the force walk away from the career that they've held for the last fourteen years?" he asks. "Do you think I'm honestly going to let you shuck all that training and experience and damned hard work down the tubes, just because of yesterday's ordeal?"

"Honestly, yeah," I shrug sourly. "Why not?"

"Pete," he sighs. "Remember when we went through this the last time you were determined to quit, right after Steve Baker was murdered? And you wound up changing your mind and staying with the job anyway?"

"That's because you purposely threw Jim Reed in my path in an attempt to stop me," I say bitterly. I point a finger at him. "But there is no Reed this time, Val. Nothing you can say or do will make me change my mind. I stand by the decision I made last night."

"So, what do you plan on doing then until you retire?" he asks, cocking his head and giving me a curious look.

"Judy knows someone who owns a hardware store in Fresno," I tell him, shrugging again. "I could always get a job there, if I wanted."

"Oh, yes, I can just SEE that," he nods, voice filled with sarcasm. "You working around bins of nuts and bolts and screws, shoveling nails into sacks by the pound, advising customers on the differences between phillips-head screwdrivers and slotted-head screwdrivers, discussing the joys of power sanding versus sanding by hand."

"Hey, it's a job," I say, picking my coffee up and taking a sip. "Don't knock it, Val. After all, you're gonna be a paperboy when you retire." I try to shoot him a smartass smirk, but my heart isn't in it, so it comes off looking like a deflated grin.

"But is that what you REALLY want to do with the rest of your life, Pete?" Val asks quietly. "Do you honestly think you're going to be happy working behind the counter of a hardware store…in Fresno, no less? Because I don't think you will be. I don't think you're going to be content to be stuck behind a counter, waiting on people, working the same job day in and day out, never varying routine…"

"Maybe that's what I WANT in my life right now," I bite out sharply. "Maybe I CRAVE a little routine and everyday sameness, Val, and how the fuck do you know I DON'T?"

He studies me for a long moment, face drawn with grey-edged fatigue. "Because I know you, Pete. And I know you'd hate that job in five seconds flat, for being a cop is all you've ever known, all you've ever wanted to do. It's in your blood, Pete, and to try to force yourself into another career at this point in your life, I'm afraid you're setting yourself up for a failure."

"Then that's my business to find that out for myself," I snap with irritation, for I know that Val is right, damn it. No matter what kind of job I'd set myself up in, I'd hate it in no time at all, and I'd wind up hating myself even more for forcing myself to make such a switch. I wave a hand at Val, trying to convince him as much as myself that I'm right, anyway. "If I don't go for the hardware store job, I can always return to Seattle and get a job on a fishing trawler up there or something. Or I can go out East and look for something…anything…out there that doesn't involve me strapping on a gun and badge and playing John Wayne."

Val smirks a little, a glimmer of humor in his grey eyes. "You're a little too baby-faced to be compared to John Wayne, Pete," he joshes. "And I thought you hated Seattle for the lousy weather they have. You told me that was one of the reasons you moved here to LA after you got out of the service."

"It was one of them," I say evasively, not revealing the others to him. "But if I got a job on one of the fishing trawlers, I'd be doing something I enjoy doing as a hobby and that's fishing."

"You also like to go dancing, so does that mean you're going to be the next Ginger Rogers?" Val asks with a chuckle. "Pete, don't you realize that if you take on a job that is closely related to your favorite hobby, you'll wind up hating it?"

"Hobby or no hobby, career switch or no career switch, my mind's made up. I'm no longer a cop for the LAPD," I tell him flatly, determinedly, folding my arms across my chest with a glare.

"But once you quit, there's really no coming back, you DO realize that, don't you?" he asks. "Remember Art McCall?"

I scowl at him. "I'm far from being like Art McCall," I tell him defensively. "Art couldn't hack coming back because the job had changed so dramatically from the way it was before he went on medical disability."

"Look," Val placates, holding his hands out in supplication. "You're at the point in your career when you could make an advancement in rank and move out of the trenches. Both the sergeant's exam and the investigator's exam is coming up in December, and why not consider taking one of them and wrangle yourself a promotion? I mean, you can't remain a Senior Lead Officer until you retire, Pete."

"I don't take the exams or opportunities for promotion 'cuz I'd never be happy riding a desk," I tell him.

Ignoring me, Val continues. "The Chief has already decided to put you and Reed up for the Medal Of Valor award, for your brave actions during yesterday's incident."

"You mean yesterday's fucking hell," I snort derisively. "And it wasn't brave of us, we were just doin' our damned jobs, that's all. And ya can't award the Medal Of Valor to a cop that is no longer on the force."

He decides to play his trump card, for Val is a clever man and definitely knows when to play his final ace, which is why he's a damned good poker player. "I've already been to Reed's house and spoken to him. He's agreed to stay on at least through the course of the investigation into yesterday's incident."

"Well, bully for him," I snark, unimpressed by Reed's willingness. "Whaddaya want me to do, throw him a goddamned tickertape parade?"

"Damn it, Pete, are you so consumed with your own selfish plans that you cannot see what is right in front of you?" Val snaps at me, finally losing his cool, his grey eyes flashing anger. "Your partner, the man you consider to be your best friend, will be forced to go through this trauma and turmoil all on his own, because you won't be there to help him out."

"Don't play that 'pity' card with me," I snap back. "In case you haven't noticed, Reed's no longer the green little rookie you and Mac tossed at me to train seven years ago. He's matured into a fine cop, and he's a big boy to boot. He don't need me to sit there and hold his hand, Val. Jim's perfectly capable of handling this on his own without my assistance, I assure you."

He points an indignant finger at me. "Goddamn it, you mean to tell me that you care so little for the years of friendship that the two of you have shared, and you're willing to just throw that young man to the wolves, simply because you cannot see past your own emotions and needs right now?" He shakes his head. "If that's the case, I'm highly disappointed in you, Pete Malloy. You're not even half the man I thought you were."

"If you're trying to shame me into staying on the job, it won't work," I tell Val coldly, giving him an icy glare. "Jim Reed will be fine, I'm sure of it. Now if you don't mind, I'd like you to…"

"I'm not so sure Reed will be fine myself, though," he interrupts quietly, urgent concern edging his voice and flickering in his eyes.

I frown. "Why, what the hell d'ya mean by that?" I ask sharply.

"When I stopped by to speak with him this morning, he seemed very distraught and upset," Val sighs worriedly. "I mean, the poor kid looks like he's carrying the weight of the world upon him, and that wife of his didn't look like she was willing to help shoulder much of the load, I'm afraid."

"So?" I shrug negligently. "We all have to carry the weight of the world upon us sometime, Val. It's nothing new and it's nothing I can really help with, either. And I don't think Jim would want my help anyway." I can't quite keep the tone of bitterness out of my voice as I think of how angry Jim was last night, how…disgusted and pissed he was with the world, not to mention with me.

He looks at me then, his grey eyes meeting mine. "Pete, what you and Jim went through out there yesterday was something no one should ever have to go through in their careers as police officers, but the fact of the matter is, it happened and you two were the ones to deal with Burnside's rampage. And now it will be you two that will have to deal with the aftermath…"

"Oh, like the survivors and the loved ones of those shot and killed yesterday won't have to suffer through the aftermath themselves?" I ask snidely. "What about those preschool kids, Val? What about the other survivors that were Burnside's victims in the park?" The memory of the woman dying in my arms hits me suddenly and I pause a moment, looking down at my hands, ashamed to meet Val's gaze lest he see the emotions in my eyes. "And what about the families of those murdered in the park?" I ask softly. "Like the woman who took a bullet meant for me, or the little girl killed in Jim's arms, or the young woman who was gunned down because she went back for her purse? What kind of aftermath will they have to go through?"

"Each will have to endure their own hellish aftermath, I'm afraid, dealing with it in the way best for them as individuals," Val tells me gently, leaning forward. "But don't you think that what experiences you and Jim shared out there in yesterday's horror, they would be best dealt with if the two of you faced them together, supporting one another when the going gets tough? Isn't that what friends do, they lean on one another when they need to?"

"I'm not overly sure Jim and I are still friends," I tell him bitterly, my mouth twisting downward in a sour smile. "He was pretty pissed at me last night when I dropped him off."

"Over what?" Val asks.

I shake my head. "The shootings. The stupidity of the world. The cruelty of Burnside. The little girl that died in his arms. The faces of the victims we saw out there, both the ones we saved and the ones we didn't. The fact that I had no ready words or wisdom to dispense to him. The whole goddamned fucking senseless injustice of it all." I hesitate a moment, scouring a hand down my face. "And Jim's got some other issues he's trying to cope with…"

"Family issues?" Val inquires gently. "Yes, I gathered that by the attitude of his wife. I take it all is not well in the Reed paradise, right?"

"It's up to him to tell you what's going on, not me," I say. "But yes, things aren't going quite well between Jim and Jean right now."

"Look, Pete, I think you know in your heart that you simply cannot turn your back and walk away from a career that you've loved and found rewarding for fourteen years now, nor can you turn your back and walk away from your best friend and leave him to deal with this mess all alone. That's not the kind of man you are, Pete. I know it and you know it. You've been there for Jim all the years you've worked together, seeing him through the tough times just as much as he's seen you through yours. He needs you now, Pete, more than ever, and you need him, even if you can't see that right now." Val's voice holds a strong conviction, for he clearly believes that he's right…and who knows, maybe he is.

"You said almost those exact same words to me on a warm February night, oh so long ago," I say softly, leaning forward and picking up my badge with a sigh, settling back onto the couch as the metal of my shield warms quickly in my palm, the silver casting glints of light across my ceiling.

"Not so long ago," Val says with a shrug. "Only seven years."

"That's a whole lifetime, Val," I say, a tone of melancholy creeping into my voice. I look over at Val Moore then…really looking at the man who has been a good friend to me for fourteen years, noticing that there's more silver threading through his brown hair than I remember, more lines etched on his face than I recall, for some part of me still sees Val as the hardnosed and stern training officer who took a brash youngster named Malloy in hand and taught him the ropes with steely-eyed determination, cast-iron will, and gentle kindness where needed. And it seems so long ago that a hardnosed and stern training officer named Malloy did the same with a brash youngster named Jim Reed, staying on to teach him the ropes despite a desire to quit the force, training him much the same way that Val trained me, except there was more to it…the kid saved me from myself, saved me from making the biggest mistake of my life, gave me something…something to hold onto; hope, faith, the renewed will to LIVE, whatever you want to call it, goddamn it…and for that, I'm eternally grateful. "When the hell did we get so old?" I ask mournfully, staring at the badge I hold in my palm.

"Time's passage waits for no one, Pete," Val tells me, understanding flashing kind in his eyes. "Not even us, I'm afraid." And I detect a touch of melancholy in his tone, too, for maybe it's a little bit of nostalagic longing, but one really can't look back on all those years gone past and not feel a bit sad at the water that has flowed under the bridge, a bit sorrowful for the younger and not-so-jaded us that existed back then.

I run a fingertip across my badge, feeling out the ridges and bumps cast into the metal, rubbing across my numbers of '744'. "What about Mac?" I ask hesitantly, eyes fixed on the badge. "What I said to him last night was serious insubordination, a fireable, cue-bow offense."

"Mac's well aware that both you and Jim were under extreme emotional pressure last night," Val tells me. "And while what the two of you said to him was wrong in the manner it was delivered, he does realize that you had a point to what you said, and he's willing to overlook the insubordination issue as long as I reprimand you." Val pats my arm, smiling gently at me. "So consider yourself reprimanded, Pete."

"What about the news conference?" I press. "I mean, neither Reed nor I is really willing to do it, ya know. Isn't there some way we can get out of it, Val?"

"Yes, I'm aware of that fact, but there's no getting around it, I'm afraid," he says. "It's not a long news conference that's planned, just a quick one to introduce you and Reed as the men who worked the situation yesterday and finally brought an end to Burnside's attack. And as I said, you will be coached as to what kinds of answers to give the reporters when they ask their questions, so you won't be going into this totally blind, nor will the two of you be alone on that stage, either. Your two paramedic friends, Roy DeSoto and John Gage will also be in attendance, for the media wants to get their angle on yesterday's tragedy, since they were the first ones that called out that they and the people in Granite Park were under sniper attack. And I will be there to deflect any of the tougher answers."

"Great," I snark, scowling darkly. "Fucking vultures, the media, always gotta know the gory little details."

"And it's only just beginning, I'm afraid," Val cautions. He gives me a thoughtful look. "Now then, are you still willing to be a member of the LAPD?"

I turn the badge so that the sunrays dance across the ceiling. "I'm only doing this for Jim," I say finally, resignedly, knowing when I'm beaten…and actually a bit glad and relieved that Val has won the battle, for truly, I WOULD miss being a cop. "I'm only staying on to be there for him and nothing more. And once this crisis has passed, I will be considering the other options available to me."

Val raises an eyebrow. "Such as?"

"Such as taking one of those damned exams, either the Sergeant's or the Investigator's, and getting a promotion." I let my gaze meet Val's then, allowing myself a little smirk that doesn't feel TOO out of place on my face, a glimmer of hope that Pete Malloy is still human. "I mean, as someone reminded me, I can't remain a Senior Lead Officer until I retire."

Val returns the smirk. "I think you'll make Lieutenant yet, Pete."

"Lieutenant, hell," I scoff. "I'm shootin' for the position of Captain eventually."

He cocks his head as he regards me with amusement. "And you know, I think you just might make it, Pete."

Something comes to me then. "Hey, what about Al Porter?" I ask with curiosity. "Burnside had such a hard-on for him and hated him for getting him canned from the force, why didn't he do something to Porter, too?"

"Ah, and therein lies the fact that Al Porter is one helluva lucky man," Val says, holding a finger up and wagging it. "Burnside DID intend to take revenge upon Porter, planting a car bomb inside of one of Porter's vehicles, a bomb that was rigged to detonate the moment that the ignition turned over." Val allows himself a real grin then. "But, what Burnside didn't realize was that the car he planted the bomb IN didn't work, and actually hadn't for a few days. The vehicle was due to be towed to a garage for repairs today, and Al Porter had been driving his wife's vehicle in the meantime, something Burnside didn't know. The bomb squad in Al's division discovered the explosives yesterday afternoon, after it was confirmed that Burnside was the sniper."

I let out a low whistle, shaking my head in amazement. "Man, Al IS lucky…lucky as hell."

Val glances at his watch then and comes to his feet. "I've gotta get going, Pete, I've got some things I need to do before I get briefed for the news conference I'm a part of this morning. But on your way into the station, you might stop by your young partner's house, see how he's doing, make sure he's okay. He was a bit of a nervous wreck when I left him just a bit ago."

"I'll try," I say a bit grudgingly as I see Val to the door. "Don't know how well my presence will be received, though."

"Pete, remember," he chides gently, opening the door. "Jim needs you just as much as you need him right now. The two of you won't be able to get through this turmoil and tragedy without the support of each other." He opens the door then, closing it with a click behind him.

I stare at the door for a long moment, then I relock it with a sigh, turning away and heading into the bedroom with weary resignation. I cross the bedroom floor to my dresser, reaching out and picking up the little wooden box that I got when I was stationed over in Germany with the Army. I open the lid, eyes sifting over the items tucked within…a pair of gold cufflinks and matching tie tack that was a high school graduation present from my parents; my high school class ring with an opal as the center stone; a little replica of my LAPD badge that I bought in a fit of whimsy right after my graduation from the Academy; a watch that broke long ago and has yet to be repaired; some buttons that have popped off of clothing long since discarded; a little medallion of a silver fox that a girlfriend gave me in reference to my nickname "The Strawberry Fox"; a fishing lure that my grandfather Malloy gave to me before he died…but it's none of those that I'm in search of right now.

Reaching inside the box, I push on the little button that is so well hidden in the construction of the box that it is invisible to the naked eye, for the box holds as many secrets inside of it as I do inside of myself. A little compartment in the bottom of the box pops out, revealing a silver key on an LAPD keychain and a clear plastic container that holds the various service awards and meritorious ribbons I've earned over my years on the force. I'm not sure why I've kept them hidden, other than I really don't like to have to explain to anyone snooping through my stuff how I got some of them, for a few of the circumstances in which I was awarded them aren't pleasant to remember. I pull out the plastic box with my ribbons, for I will have to wear them on my uniform for the news conference, as ordered by the "dress blues" command. I start to close the compartment back up, but I hesitate a moment, thinking, then I turn away, crossing over to the nightstand and picking up the crumpled ball of paper that has Evie's phone number on it. I open the piece of paper up, smoothing it out in my palm, eyes straying across the numbers written upon it, then I take it over to the little wooden box, carefully folding the slip of paper in half before tucking it into the secret compartment, sliding the compartment shut with a click.

Because even though we don't always intend to use the lifelines that are given to us, sometimes it's a saving grace to just know that they're THERE, tucked away and hidden in reserve when we so desperately need them, a little thread of hope to cling to when it seems everything else is gone.


End file.
